The Assassin's Creed
by Domestic Duchess
Summary: He was EomerKing, a pig-headed, hot tempered SOB with a kind and compassionate heart that belied his gruff, taciturn exterior. She was a beautiful girl, marked by the Valar, with a mysterious past and seemingly no future. Updated! 2/14
1. Chapter 1 A Lost Man

Author's Note:

Hello!

This chapter is pretty simple. I get that and I want it that way.

I got this idea from one line in the 300, said oddly enough, by David Wenham.

If you are a real hard core Tolkien cannon-ite, maybe this won't be for you,(it's by no means an AU as it happens post War of the Ring) but Tolkien leaves so much to imagination it's great to just let your mind wander on what could have happened and ask what if! It's great we know so much about some characters and know so little about others. All we know about Lothiriel is her date of birth and who her father and brothers are. We know nothing about her mother, where she was from, how Imrahil met his wife, or what happened to her. We don't know when and were Eomer and Lothiriel meet, why they marry, when elfwine is born, or, well... you'll see.

So this is my take on a Eomer/Lothiriel story, so let's let our imagination run wild!

My goal here is to tell a story about how two people fell in love. My other goal is to present characters as real people. Eomer is a 29 yr old man. He should act like it. He's not prince charming like I see in so many other stories. He is a can be a jerk and an ass, and I will not apologize for writing him that way, and that is what makes this story stand out from all the others. He is a man and a barbarian and, I think, realistic to the times. If you're going to start reading this and think he will be some 15 yr old girls idealogical perception of what men are like, stop reading now. You won't like this story and you'll not fall in love with hiim. He is no Edward fucking Cullen. We all know how this story ends, so i will say right now, Eomer is the hero that Loti needs. To me, when i write, they are real people with histories and hang ups who live in a real place were life is not easy.

Thanks ahead of time! Hope you are entertained.

**

* * *

****First Year of the Fourth Age**

**Summer**

**Near Pelagir**

"_You were my enemy. I was supposed to hate you."_

Those were the last words she spoke to him.

She slept now on their camp bed in a miserable wind blown tent, far from any real home she has ever known. She slept in that awful bed, so unfit for her sublime presence…So unfit for a Queen of Rohan…

EomerKing sat on the edge of the bed, clasping her limp hand with both of his. He did not feel like a king, only an ordinary man tortured by leaving his wife with out saying goodbye.

He must leave to fetch their son from his sister's house. If he didn't leave now, he never would…

She would leave later this morning, stopping first in Minas Tirith for a few days, before awaiting his arrival. When he met her again they would return home to Edoras.

At least she would not be alone. Her father and brothers would make the long journey back. They had insisted. It would allow them the precious time they needed to get reacquainted.

He brought her smooth, pale hand to his lips, and pressed them together for a long moment, his eyes closed, dreading the ride he must make with out her by his side.

And remembering the day they met…

Reluctantly, he replaced her hand and quietly stood; he knew she would not wake. He lingered defiantly, gazing down at the only person he had ever loved more than himself. Her love touched him in a place men never talked about. She had captured his soul and wrapped herself in it, loving him for everything he was not. It was she who had done the saving that day in the woods near the border. It was she who rescued him from a world of war, hate, anger and a life time of loss. She had become the light to his darkness; the silvery stars in his midnight sky.

Only now did he realize how frail she really was, yet she had more courage than a legion of men, more strength than the entire army of the Riddermark.

He could not say the same about himself.

He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging.

Never once did she lament the life she was born into.

She would hate him if she knew he felt sorry for himself. She would hate him if she knew he both pitied and envied her.

Her light brown hair flowed around her like a glowing halo, an aura illuminating her flawless elegance. He fondled the long tresses between his fingers as he would do when they lay in bed. He shut his eyes and conjured the image of her brown locks cascading over her sun kissed bare shoulders and back, concealing the firm perkiness of her chest, and grazing like silk against his chest when they made love.

He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, her creamy complexion begging to be kissed. She felt cold against the warmth of his skin and he pulled the blanket higher in a futile attempt to keep her warm. She hated being both alone and cold in bed. She would cling to him in the night until he took her into his arms. Then she would wriggle against him, and fall asleep on his shoulder, her veiled nakedness so close to his own.

There were so many promises he made to her in those cold nights that winter when she shared his bed. He said he would take her back to the Mark forever. She could leave her unspoken past and find blissful peace in his homeland.

He would keep his promise.

This time she would enter Rohan as his wife, no longer the King's southern slut. She would return to the Golden Hall of Meduseld a Queen. She would find her desire for tranquility there; a pastoral serenity spent with her doting husband and baby for eternity. Today she would leave to find that heavenly peace with him and Elfwine, forever.

Elfwine… What a silly name for a future King of the Mark. She didn't want him to have a name from the south; a name born from his enemies. So she left it to his sister and her husband to name his son. He would have preferred his heir to be named after his father, but he had not been there at his son's birth. It was his deepest regret, and, therefore, he let her name him whatever she wished. Today, he was glad he granted her that one small favor. At the time he did not know it was the only child she would ever bear him.

Men stirred unobtrusively outside the tent, waiting for the King to finish his farewells. He pulled himself upright as a leader should, gathering his emotions, suppressing his guilt, with the knowledge he must leave now.

Now…

He leaned down and brushed her bangs from her forehead, kissing it as if it were the last thing he would ever do.

"Sweet dreams, my love," he soothed, though she could not hear his wishful words.

He stood again, vehemently fighting off the soreness in his throat and the heaviness in chest as he breathed ragged and quick. Decisively, he turned to exit, and wiped from his cheek the single hot tear he allowed himself to shed.

Hers would be the unforgiving dreams of the wickedly cursed…

The restless sleep of the eternally damned…


	2. Chapter 2 The Assassin

Author's Note:

Hello again! Thanks for reading! I apologize to any one who wasted 20 minutes fo their life reading the first draft of this chapter. It was awful. AWFUL! I think this chapter has heart and soul as opposed to the first posting which was basically marching stiffs around a stage. If you see any grammer mistakes, and i think there might be a couple, let me know and i will fix.

Remember if you post a review i will gladly respond.

This chapter is heavy and maybe a little dark. There's a lot of information packed into this chapter also that is crucial to the rest of the story. I tried to be tactful about what happens to Loti in this chapter.

Thanks!

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****April**

**Two Years Earlier…**

Loti woke hidden amongst the leaves, twigs, and dirt of the forest floor that made her sorrowful bed. Dried leaves tumbled over her face, tickling her cold nose and cheeks. There was no use trying to go back to sleep, she was fully awake now, fearful it was the same thick, black spider that skimmed across her hand two days ago jolting her into consciousness. Making a quick perusal of her person in a panicked fashion, she found no eight legged ticklers this morning. Stretching, she tried to work out the knot in her back from lying on some old knotty root or stone. It was strange how, even after years of sleeping on the ground, she never got used to it. She extended her arms above her head, and lazily gazed skyward between the branches and green foliage of the wooded hills. It was well before dawn, and thick clouds hid any shining gray light from the moon and stars. The tumbling leaves, it seemed, were dusted up by heavy, moist southern winds, announcing the coming of spring thunderstorms that would sweep ferociously over the mountains.

She lay there, prone, listening to the swishing of leaves and twitching of branches in the mature trees above. This far north, isolated, in the pre dawn hours, the breezes almost sounded like waves subtly curling over and breaking smoothly on the sandy beaches near her childhood home. The rich and loamy scented breath of nature felt dense; very different from the light, cleansing, salty zephyrs blown from the oceans in the south.

Even as a little girl, living along the waterfront in Umbar, she had been fascinated by thunderstorms. She and her younger brother, Castamir, would clamor up a gnarly old tree to the roof of their mother's dilapidated townhouse, and wait for them to roll in from the sea. From this highpoint, they could see across the harbor and watch lightning sizzle between the dark clouds burned red around the edges by the setting sun and hear the low mocking rumbles of thunder. There they would wait, until the last seconds before the rain broke, or their mother shouted a furious stream of expletives in a drunken stupor, before coming inside. Looking back, she realized how foolish and reckless this activity had been, as they easily could have been struck by that same lightning she found so entrancing.

Those were good days, simple days, and she was glad to have spent them with Castamir.

Loti sat up, shaking off the leaves, and began digging through her black leather satchel, which also doubled as a poor excuse for a pillow, and found what she was looking for; her hairbrush and her book. She rolled back to the ground with a flounce, resting the leather bound book on her chest under her folded arms, relaxing into the forest floor as if it were a fluffy goose down feather bed.

It was still too dark to read…

Not that she needed light to know what was written on each page.

She closed her eyes, chest heaving with a deep sigh of bucolic idleness.

Loti hadn't known the man who had written the loving poetry in the book- her father. He was like an apparition for most of her childhood, only appearing on the rare occasion her mother spoke of him, in which case, it only increased his mysteriousness and her curiosity. Perhaps she and Castamir had different fathers, but that didn't seem likely, since both siblings had the light brown hair and fair skin that was quite uncommon in the South. She didn't have fleeting glimpses of him in her earliest memory either, so she had been very young when he left, or whatever became of him. She and Castamir were little more than two and a half years apart in age, so she felt it was likely her father disappeared from their lives sometime before then. Her parents must have loved each other dearly to have caused him to write such adoring words, and that oddity made their parting even more vexing.

It was strange to think of anyone loving her mother in such a way. She must have been a different person in those days…

Sitting up again, Loti smoothed a hand down the back of her head, feeling the jumble of knots and tangles, interwoven with crumbled leaves. Reaching inside her black leather coat, she flopped her thick, light brown braid onto her shoulder, loosening it, so it nearly touched the ground. She dragged the brush, with long strokes, through the length of her hair from root to end, knowing it badly needed a proper washing.

Her mother was, quite frankly, a drunken, erratic, irresponsible mess of a whore. From an early age Loti had taken on the responsibilities of the household, cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, and caring for Castamir while their mother was in the upstairs bedroom entertaining clients. Growing up, men coming and going from the house was as normal an activity to them as eating or sleeping, since mariners had the need for a woman's body after weeks spent at sea in the company of other men. On the unfortunate occasion Loti heard her mother being beaten by an unsatisfied client, she would hide Castamir in the closet under the stairs, and wait vigilantly with a knife or whatever weapon she could find, in case he decided to vent his frustration on the whore's children. Then she would tend to her mother's cuts and bruises, dismayed, knowing it would only happen again.

Maybe, she was too hard on her mother. Perhaps, she wasn't all that bad…

Her mother insisted her children read and write, and Loti learned to play the harp; the one bizarrely extravagant item her mother owned in a household sparsely decorated in basic necessities. Loti fondly recalled being taken to the beach, and playing with a toddling Castamir, building mounds in the white sands and wading knee deep in the crashing sea blue surf.

Satisfied with her hair brushing, Loti dug through the satchel again and produced a handful of leather strings. She parted her mane of hair down the back of her head and fastened two lengthy ponytails with the strings, letting the ends drape over her chest. Each ponytail received a raking with her fingers before being divided in three sections, braided and secured. Shaking her head with a flourish, she flipped the braids behind her and tucked them safely inside the coat. Inside the bag she found a black gauzy cotton scarf and wrapped it around her neck and head. It was traditional for women in the south to cover their heads as a sign of modesty. Women of the northern lands of Gondor and Rohan were under no obligation to wear such things, and she quickly learned, in order to naturally assimilate into their culture, not to wear it openly.

The scarf would serve an entirely different purpose today, though.

Gathering her things, she deftly moved several hundred yards through the woods to the spot she picked out a few days ago. Dumping her things carelessly behind a large boulder on a rocky outcropping that over looked a lush green valley, she sat down against it. Drawing her knees to her chest, she waited for dawn.

Loti had mixed feelings about what would happen today. She had been given a specific two month time frame in which to complete her mission, and now that time was coming to an end. In order to meet her handler in Minas Tirith, it would take nearly a week to walk the Great West Road the fifty leagues, or so, from the Firien Wood in Rohan's eastern Fenmarch. Her procrastination cast serious doubt on the prospect of meeting him on time and with the reassurance the job was completed successfully. That was bad. Even worse was finishing the mission in the rain, wind, mist and fog of the approaching storms.

Killing a man was a dirty affair, and difficult too when he rode with a guard of twenty well trained and armed men; virtually impossible when the target himself was one of the most skilled and fearsome men in Middle earth.

She pressed a cheek to her knees, and shut her eyes.

This was not the life she would have chosen for herself, if she had been given a choice. Left to her own devices, and a normal adolescence, she would have become a healer. Taking care of others, like her mother and brother, fixing their problems, their troubles, their hurts, it gave her life a purpose beyond just mere existence.

But life intervened, forever altering her dreams.

Her mother's thin form burst through the door one oppressive summer day when Loti was thirteen, breathing heavy, a rare look of excitement and sobriety on her face. She dashed up the staircase with the fleetness of a gazelle, leaving her children gaping, and baffled.

Flying back down the stairs, and into the dank common area that served as kitchen, living area, and children's bedroom, she yanked her daughter's hands out of the wooden dishwashing basin.

"Mother! What _is_ wrong?" Loti squealed, distracted from the dishwashing. He mother's irrational antics would hinder her from finishing any chores.

She held a rich, royal blue velvet gown against her daughter, then jerked it away just a quickly.

"Come! You must take a bath!"

She dragged Loti up the stairs, protesting.

"Bath? In the middle of the morning? There's work to do!"

"Today," began her mother, stripping off Loti's linen kirtle and undergown, "You will work no more!"

She spun the naked girl around. Loti's white skin turned red, embarrassed to have her mother's eyes examining the developing curves of her body. Frantically, her mother left the room, returning sometime later with warm water, and forced her in the wooden tub. The older woman shampooed her daughter's hair and washed her body, scrubbing off dirt and years of manual labor. Then Loti sat, wrapped in a linen towel, while her mother combed and pinned her wet hair, and sprayed her liberally with exotic scented perfumes. She had never seen these tiny crystal bottles in the house before and didn't even know her mother owned such expensive fragrances.

After dressing in an undergarment that buoyed her young, small breasts, Loti pulled the weighty gown over her head.

When she finally saw her reflection, she barely knew herself. The dress was too big in the chest and waist and the skirt billowed on the floor. But the square neck and hem of the sleeves were elaborately embroidered in silver and the blue color set her sapphire eyes ablaze and made her unblemished skin appear like porcelain. Her mother fastened a sliver chain belt around her slender hips, scrutinized her appearance, and lightly rouged her daughter's lips and cheeks. Completing the outfit was a pair of oversized, heeled, silver slippers that made walking a challenge.

Loti was dragged back down the stairs and pushed into a chair.

"Mother," Loti insisted, "Will you please tell me what's going on?"

The woman smiled proudly at her daughter, hectically tiding up the house, "Men from the palace are coming! They are looking for new girls at court."

"From the palace! Why on earth are they coming here?" exclaimed Loti.

"They only choose the most beautiful girls in the city. I have told them about you! I told them you were marked by the Valar!"

Breathless, her mother stated definitively, "They will choose you!"

Covering the small mole by her lip with her hand, Loti was taken aback by her mother's confidence.

_Marked by the Valar indeed_, she scoffed. She was nothing more that a poor, dirty street urchin, not an attractive damsel fit for the court of Umbar.

The woman continued, emphasizing her words, "Girls at court are educated, they have status. You will be able to marry a man of nobility, one who will take care of you. You will have honor! You will have a good life, an easy life!"

"You wish to send me away? What about you and Castamir?" Loti exclaimed, fearing what would befall them if she were not there to carry the responsibilities of the household.

She knelt in front of her daughter and placed a consoling hand on her cheek, soothing her concerns.

When she spoke her voice was reassuring, "We'll be alright. But if they choose you, promise me you will say yes. Promise me. This is the only way out for you."

Loti momentarily considered her options, glancing from the middle aged woman to the little boy playing on the floor.

Was there really that much to think about?

She could stay here on the waterfront and eek out a feeble existence caring for her family with little chance of anything more, or, if they chose her, move to the palace, learn a skill, and wed a man who would provide for her and her family. The former was certainly better in the short term. But the latter could provide for her family, as well as herself, possibly, for the rest of their lives. That was, if her mother could make it three more years, until Loti was of marrying age.

After a short internal struggle she acquiesced to her mothers desires.

"Yes, Mother, I promise."

The men came late in the afternoon to see the girl branded by the divine. They were ushered in the house graciously; her mother offering them what little refreshment they had available. There were five men in total, and all were quite large in height and weight, dark, and finely dressed. She curtsied courteously to each courtier as they looked her over, asked a few requisite questions, and nodded approvingly.

The fifth, a man with giant hands and short, fat fingers, glowered at her sinisterly. His harassing eyes visibly raked her over with what she knew to be a man's unmistakable desire for lust. Loti, unable to hold his gaze, turned her head from his piercing stare, and discomfort swelled in her belly from his blatant mental undressing. As the daughter of a prostitute, she was not unknowledgeable about men, and knew when one was not worthy of trust, and this man certainly was not.

When her mother was distracted, he approached, his towering height bearing down on her small figure. One of his fat fingers traced the line of her collarbone and slid under the neckline of the dress. The finger moved against her skin until it reached the crest of her breasts. Then he pulled the dress open sharply, exposing her tender flesh to his immoral ogling. She struck his hand abruptly, clutched the gown's flaccid velvet fabric closed around her chest, and found the courage to meet his eyes in outrage. For an instant, Loti thought he would strike her with an insolent slap, as his face turned hard and ridged. But, instead, he appeared amused, smiling and chuckling to himself.

To his friends, he said contritely, "She'll do."

After gathering a few minor necessities, Loti knelt and hugged her only friend and brother, hoping he had the strength to be the man of the house. The hug she received from her mother's thin arms was crushing.

Pulling back, Loti noticed she held a book in her caressing hands.

"I want you to have this," she said, her voice was shaky and her eyes were full and glistening, "Your father made it for me. You will find a good man…One who will love you."

Tucking the book safely under her arm, Loti said nothing, too swamped by the suddenness of everything.

She turned Loti by the shoulders and ushered her out the door.

"Go now!"

Then she was led away from the only home she had ever known.

She was led away to new life.,,

A life she knew nothing about, by men she had just met, to a place she had never seen.

In the hazy afternoon sunlight, she turned in a daze for one last look at her family. Castamir stood silent, expressionless, and more stoic than an eleven year old boy should ever look, obviously overwhelmed by the day's life altering event. Her mother was crying, tears of pride and joy streaking her lined cheeks. A sob suppressing hand covered her mouth as she happily waved goodbye to her only daughter.

The City of Corsairs was quite large, with a maze of narrow, dirty streets filled with all types of questionable personages. It was dusk when they arrived at a compound in view of the palace, surrounded by a high stone wall, of a size Loti had never believed possible. The courtyard was quite long and wide and void of any decoration or landscaping she might have expected. Naively, and without question she followed the men into the huge stone building at the far end of the courtyard. Inside, she found it very bleak, dark, and barren, devoid of any motion or natural light. The stone insulated the structure from the searing heat of summer, and she shivered from the contrast in temperature, but also from apprehension. The same disquieting feeling she felt earlier wormed it way back in to her middle and looped around her heart.

None of this was right.

After wandering down circling stairs and along a torch lit hallway, a weathered oak door was opened and she shown into a windowless, unlit room. Her guide lit a candle and exited the room wordlessly. The room was sporadically decorated with an ancient table, two chairs, a night stand and wooden bed with satisfactory bedding.

Loti waited for several hours, sitting cross legged on the bed, reading her new book by the dim flickering light of the candle when she heard the latch on the door. Four men entered the room; one of the men was the rude, fat fingered ogling man, and the other three she had never seen. She was keenly aware that her suppressed apprehension and intuition had been correct when Fat Fingers approached. It was very clear the intruders had lust in their eyes and rape on their minds.

She leapt off the bed and shuffled back to the wall, flattening herself against it, as though she was trying to slither between the cracks in the stone blocks.

"Stay away!" she warned with an outstretched hand, but Fat Fingers came still closer.

Frightened to the point of sickness, Loti made a wild dash for the door, slinking between the bed and Fat Fingers. She was nearly out of reach when his long muscular arm tied around her waist and clutched her to him like a prize. Writhing and screaming, she felt his hot breath and tongue on her earlobe.

"Go ahead, I like it better when you fight," his whisper assured brutally.

His free hand smoothed over her shoulder and down her chest, fondling roughly inside the dress. A rebellious cry escaped her lips as Fat Fingers tossed her on the bed and then fell on top of her, pressing the breath from her lungs. Loti scratched and clawed at his eyes and neck, but her struggling only increased his excitement. Two of the men held her arms, while the remaining man watched with heated intensity as she lay pinned helplessly to the bed. Fat Fingers gnawed at the softness of her neck while forcing her legs apart. He freed himself, and his vile oily hands lifted the skirt to her waist. Loti began to sob in choking anguish at the impending loss of her youth and innocence as her attacker whispered wicked words in her ear.

"You're a tease, and a dirty whore, aren't you? No man will want you now! You're mine!"

At last, he exerted ultimate control over his victim destroying her pure, absolute beauty in one horrifying motion.

She screamed until her voice was raw, praying someone would hear and rescue her from this bodily torment. But none came.

Each man took his turn, systematically deflowering her, painfully plucking each tiny, bright petal and grinding it deliberately and cruelly between his nameless fingers.

The next morning, she waited by the door for them to return. Upon hearing the lock loosen, she hefted one of the chairs and swung with furious force at the man who walked through the door. The stroke found the man in the chest and he collapsed to the floor with Loti and the shattered chair. Unfortunately, Fat Fingers was behind the first man, and he wrenched her to her feet with a thick handful of brown hair, hauled her out into the courtyard, and savagely kicked her until she coughed blood and lost consciousness.

Before passing out, sprawled on hands and knees in the hard dirt, she raised her head.

To her horror and astonishment, as many as twenty other girls returned her petrified stare.

Had they experienced the same perversity she had? By the look of defeat she saw in their eyes, Loti knew they all shared the same violations and fate.

What kind of place was this? Who would do this to them?

Time moved excruciatingly slow in the isolation of her room, and weeks past before she learned her purpose for being taken.

Loti would spend her life working for Umbar and its Lords as a spy.

There would be no promised life at court. That was only a tactic, a brilliantly devised story, to lure the most beautiful girls away from their families.

And Fat Fingers, the disgusting animal that found pleasure in raping screaming girls, would be her trainer.

She fought Fat Fingers' violations for a week until finally giving in and lying quiet and motionless beneath his bulging olive skinned body; physically beaten and mentally broken by his threatening and demoralizing words.

Each morning for eight years she greeted that impervious stone wall. Did anyone know what terrors took place inside those walls? Did anyone on the outside question the high pitched, blood curdling shrieks?

Did anyone care?

She thought not.

Southern men considered women less valuable than a good piece of livestock. The vast majorities of southern girls were poor and uneducated, making them vulnerable and easily coerced into deceitful spies and exacting killers through extreme fear and physical, mental, or sexual intimidation.

The misogynistic tyrannical lord that ruled Umbar did realize women held two advantages over men. They could move about without difficulty, unnoticed and unsuspected, and men found beautiful women irresistible, allowing them access to their home, offices, and beds.

Eventually, Loti was brought fully into the sorority. First she learned how to handle a sword, then a bow and basic hand to hand combat. She was indoctrinated in the psychology and philosophy of killing and death, and to fear neither.

She was trapped, with no hope of escape, in a life not of her own making.

She felt ashamed, and exposed, even as a grown woman, to let men use her in such ways.

Her only consolation in those endlessly dim, deprived years was her father's book and a dream born from his heartfelt, enamoring words; a dream where she would love and be loved in return. A dream of loving a man so powerfully, so deeply it would upset the world. A dream of being loved so completely she could feel it through all space and time.

A true unquestioning love, a flaming passion, between her and a man that she knew would mend her broken soul.

Those events had taken place nearly ten year ago. And now, like time, she felt those dreams slipping away…

Hearing movement below, Loti raised her head from her bent knees. The sun was just beginning to brighten the grim, boiling clouds in the eastern sky, causing them to appear even more dark and ominous. Her attention caught the rustling of tent flaps and the distinct strutting gait of long footsteps. Carried up on the breeze, she heard the faint sound of voices bidding good morning. She recognized one of the voices.

Flattening herself against the rocky ground, Loti crawled to the edge of the outcropping and peered in to the valley.

Below lay the campground of the army of Rohan, or at least, a small portion of the army of Rohan.

Green, sloping, deciduous hillsides gave way to a flat, narrow, grassy valley, well picked over by the grazing horses of the Rohirrum. Three large canvas tents were near her, stretching and snapping in the winds, and well more than a dozen smaller ones extended north, as she lay at the head of the ravine's dead end.

At the farthest point she dared crawl, she could see him…

Eomer…

Even with his back to her, his towering height distinguished him from the other men in the valley, as did his decorative mahogany leather chest plate and pauldrons, intricately inlaid with gold and blackened steel. On the front of his chest plate were two golden rearing horses. Although he did not face her, Loti had first hand knowledge of this fact.

Originally, her plan was to seduce him.

She had finally tracked him down in Aldburg, a town she knew to be his home. In the market place, she thought she might casually bump into him, bat her eyes, touch his arm, pay him a few flirtatious, ego stroking compliments and he would come willingly into her web. But, as she approached him in the crowded streets, she fell prey to distraction and let her eyes fall on a nearby table of hair pins, clips, bows, and combs. Instead of a graceful and planned meeting, Loti's cheek smacked squarely in the center of the King of Rohan's chest with a dull thump, and the momentum of his solid body made her tumble clumsily to the dirty street with a thud.

Eomer stood over her, his rugged blonde handsomeness backlight by the cobalt blue sky and radiant coronal glow of the sun.

He was a breathless, heart pounding sight of flawless manhood.

"Sorry," he apologized in voice as husky and pleasing as his appearance, "My fault. I didn't see you. You alright?"

He extended his thick, calloused hands in assistance.

Loti was speechless, her mouth open loosely, sitting on her bum in the street beneath EomerKing, in a filthy heap. She scrambled to her feet, blushing from embarrassment and discomfort, catching the hem of her threadbare, secondhand dress with her heel and tripping. Leaning down, he grabbed her elbow, almost encircling it with his hand, and single handedly pulled her upright. She tugged feebly at the ragged dress, while Eomer dusted her off, his hand inadvertently grazing her backside.

Jerking her arm from his grasp, she back away, flustered and stunned.

His voice sounded genuinely concerned, "You alright?"

Loti fled, nearly running from the market, red faced and upset. She rounded a corner into an alley and slid against a wall to the ground, her head in her hands. She shook as if she had seen a ghost.

The ghost of Theodred…

If there was ever a man she could have found love with, it would have been Theodred.

Loti watched as Eomer lacksidasically wandered into the depths of the camp to check on men, horses, supplies, or what ever else he did that seemed so habitually routine.

How closely Eomer resembled his older cousin in voice, appearance, and mannerisms made her ill. She couldn't kill him like that, face to face; to listen as he gasped for air, to see the blood ooze between his fingers, to watch his face until he failed to exist…She couldn't take him to bed, share his body, look into those soft blue eyes and then ruthlessly and methodically murder him in the throes of passion.

She may as well have been sent to kill Theodred all over again!

She badly wanted Eomer dead. He was a vicious, merciless, barbarian bastard; a killer of sons and husbands… and of brothers. He deserved no less than to die a slow torturous death in painful agony. But she couldn't do it if he looked at her for even one moment in the same way Theodred had when they lay in bed together.

_Yes, this is the better way. It does not matter how it's done, as long as it's done, _she surmised.

From a distance she could shoot an arrow through his neck and turn away.

She crawled back to her rock, raising her eyes to the gray sky, wary of what the weather may have in store, and thrust her cold fingers between her knees.

Gradually, she heard more voices, the flapping of canvas as men exited their tents to begin the day's labor, the muffled whickering of horses echoing in the ravine, and the smell of campfire smoke and cooking food drifted to her nose on the breeze, making her empty stomach rumble.

She slithered forth every now and again, taking stock of the situation. After watching him for a few weeks, she knew Eomer was a solitary man, and it was only a matter of time before she would find him isolated.

With nothing left to do but wait, Loti tried to put the emotions of Eomer and Theodred out of her mind and focus on her reason for being here, Castamir. The last time she had seen him was at the army camp of the southern forces in South Gondor. She hadn't seen him in eight years, but recognized the brown hair and fair skin instantly when he approached.

Loti had forgotten how much she missed her little brother when she saw he had grown into a tall, regal looking man. And he was as good natured and amiable as ever. For days they were inseparable, and she listened as he talked about his apprenticeship as a stone mason, his girlfriend, and their ailing mother. She did little talking though, unable to explain her long absence and forbidden to discuss her life.

The morning he marched north, she hugged him tightly, ever the protective sister. Castamir, full of youthful vitality, bravado and cockiness, fully expected to return home victorious.

He never did.

Castamir died with his other countymen on the fields of the Pelennor.

He wasn't even nineteen.

Grief stricken Loti returned to the City, only to bury her mother weeks later.

From behind her rock, Loti angrily pushed back the tears and self pity that always started with a lump in her throat. Crying was not going to bring her brother back. Nor would it replace the vast lonely emptiness in the center of her chest hollowed out by the loss of everyone she loved.

It was all the fault of that smug son of a bitch who camped below!

Why couldn't he have protected his cousin better? Why couldn't he have just stayed in Rohan where he belonged? Why did he have to come that day to the Pelennor?

How was it possible he still lived and so many others died?

_Yes,_ she affirmed, _I blame him_.


	3. Chapter 3 Retribution

Author's Note:

Hey! Thanks for reading! Again if you see any grammer mistakes let me know and I will fix. This is the second half of the second chapter. Otherwise it would have been super long!

Revenge.

Revenge had been her purpose for the last eight years. Whether it was for money, power, land, or politics, retaliation for wrongs done from one man to another had fallen on her. It was always done for a reason she didn't understand, or didn't question, by men who wished to disassociate themselves from intrigue and murder, or who didn't want to get their hands dirty.

She had never tasted the power that revenge held.

Was it as sweet as advertised?

When she finally had it, when it was in her mouth, would it stick to her like a piece of caramel and make her feel satisfied? Or would she still be hungry and craving for more?

Loti mulled these questions over in her mind as she pulled her black quiver across her body, and strapped her sword loosely around her hips.

Eomer had finally found his way back to her end of the valley and was conveniently seated in his usual place around the fire eating. Just as conveniently and predictably, he sat alone.

She turned her head surveying the valley one last time. Newly budded leaves swayed roughly, maples flashed their silvery undersides, rising and falling, undulating like ten million little ships forming a green sea. Swirling winds were not ideal conditions to be shooting fickle arrows at a small target from any distance.

Reaching over her shoulder, she plucked an arrow from the quiver, and notched on the bow string.

_If I'm going to do this, _she thought reluctantly, _it might as well happen now. _

She felt a sudden surge of anxiety, and inhaled a ragged, shuttering breath, and her heartbeat quickened so that she felt the pounding behind her eyes. Her hands trembled with the swell of adrenaline.

_There is nothing to be nervous about. I have done this before!_

Concern was beginning to succumb to urgency as too many thoughts clouded her mind, buzzing around her as if she was the flower and they were the bees. The weather was becoming worse. She would only get one chance at this; one shot, one arrow. If she returned home in failure again, she did not think she could endure the punishment this time.

"No!" she scolded herself in a whisper while straining to gathering internal resolution, "I can do this. I can finish this!"

She hardened herself, like white hot steel quenched in water.

This was no time for existential questions and idle, musing thoughts. She was here to do a job. Action was needed now. She could worry about consequences later.

Irritated, Loti pulled the black scarf over her mouth and nose so only her sapphire eyes were visible.

Bow in hand, half standing, half crouching, she inched her way onto the outcropping, so she could just see where the unaided King sat, his head downcast, staring into the fire.

Loti took a deep breath, and let years of training and experience take over her mind and body. Confidently, she brought herself to her full height, drawing the murderous arrow to the corner of her mouth with cold, calculating decision…

And she heard nothing…

Smelled nothing…

Felt nothing…

Not the rustling of wind through the trees and her clothes or the daily life of the men below, not the fragrance of lilac blossoms or rain or earth, not the dampness of spring air on her skin, not a single singing bird ushering in the dawn.

Her entire essence concentrated on him and the exposed bronze skin of his neck above where his leather armor failed to protect.

Then, slowly, he looked up, raising his golden head and eyes towards the hillside, as if he could feel her gaze burning a hole in his skin. He caught sight of her and for the briefest, shortest instant the hunter held her prey's eyes.

Loti blinked, disconcerted. Suddenly, she felt the weather's perfumed gusts of prickling mist, and the acidic burning in her arm from straining against the tension of the bowstring. Her muscles began to tremble from fatigue, her throat and temples throbbing in need of air. Hot blood flushed her body, and the mere presence of his glacial blue eyes upon her caused sweat to dampen her skin.

She lowered her bow a few inches, and stood as if made from stone, transfixed, falling downward in to the blue pools of his eyes as he held her in his sight. All control she had was lost by his closeness, his gaze, his calm demeanor in the face of his own demise.

It was a long moment before Loti regained her composure, convinced he was mocking her, daring her to shoot, not making a sound or motion for help.

Decisively, Loti brought the weapon back to her lips, determined not to let his cunning eyes sway either of them from their destiny.

Her fingertips released the string, launching the arrow at her target.

Eomer sat unflinching, as the arrow sliced through the distance between them, and pierced the wooden side of the camp chair, narrowly missing his shoulder.

Stunned and flustered, she took a disbelieving step back.

She had missed.

Missed?

How could she have missed?

By becoming distracted by his boldness? His arrogance?

His brilliance?

Bitterly, she ground her teeth, and stepped methodically to the edge of the cliff, fully revealing herself. Pulling and notching another arrow, Loti shot again, and watched as it floundered in a wild gale and stuck sharply in the ground at the feet of the King.

Cringing in disappointment and bewilderment at her poor display of marksmanship, she rapidly fired a careless series of shots in utter desperation. One sheered against the chain mail of his right arm, another slammed in the grass behind him, and the last arrow bounced and skidded along the ground to a halt.

The nagging doubt of defeat crept back into her mind and a breath caught tightly in her throat.

She had failed. Again.

Eomer's face became tight, reading her eyes and body language, sensing the source of her irritation, the emotions of her dashed expectations. Staring up at her, he sneered a smile of dominance.

The clear, deep resonance of his voice rang out in the valley, a warning that the hunter was now the hunted.

"Rohirrim!"

Loti spun from the rocky edge and snatched her satchel. Running through the woods she tossed the bag across her body and slung the bow over her arm.

The vegetation was thick, but the hills beneath the bordering mountains were loose with dirt and other forest debris. The footing was treacherous in some places making running difficult, and the sheer number of the men of the Mark would easily catch up.

She scrambled up the hillside, digging her hands in the dirt, desperate to get a significant head start. The shouting of commands and pounding of horse's hooves could be heard below as the King's men rallied.

Cresting the top of the hill, she slid on one knee, partway down the slope. When the ground became dense and rocky, she got to her feet and trotted, snaking between and over weathered limestone outcroppings, boulders and gravity defying trees clinging precariously into the soilless hillside.

Reaching the valley floor, she ran, sprinting as fast as she could, chest out, legs propelling her forward with long jarring strides. She dodged to and fro, weaving around trees and bushes, narrowly missing, grazing some with her shoulder or her satchel thumping against them, hurdling fallen and decaying logs or occasional large rocks with the graceful agility of a deer. The valley floor was green with new life, ferns, and sapling trees, some as tall as she. Angling slightly to close to a bush, it reached out and snagged the cotton fabric covering her head, but she kept running. She plowed head long into another thicket, ensnaring herself in the hidden vines of a bush, the thorns tearing mercilessly at the skin of her hands and the covering of her head. She crouched down in the brambles, catching her breath, looking back over the path of destruction left in her wake. Even the most imbecilic tracker would be able to tell which direction she had come.

The eerie pall of fear entered her consciousness for the first time, quietly and slowly seeping into her physical being, causing her heart to beat erratically, her stomach to shrink, and the muscles in her thighs and knees to wobble. Like a pebble thrown in a still puddle, she felt an undulating wave of icy numbness ripple through her from core to fingertips.

They would find her.

Loti's mind choked out an even more appalling question. What would happen when they found she was a woman? The Rohirrim were barbarians. She had heard the stories of the atrocities they committed. How they kidnapped and raped southern women and then sold them into slavery as unwilling concubines, field laborers or household servants. She knew what abuses the King's men would have in mind for her. Would Eomer give her to his soldiers as a reward or would he participate in assaulting her also?

Her mind clogged with trepidation, she searched her memory, trying to recall the local terrain for an escape route.

She began to hear the distinct pitter patter of fat, heavy rain drops on the canopy of leaves above, thumping down in a slow intermittent rhythm all around.

Rain…

Water…

Stream!

There was a terribly shallow, stony bottomed, wide stream in a clearing about two miles away; if she could make it there, she could run, untraced, up the creek.

Then her ears pricked, and she held her breath. The distant thundering of hooves and ringing of tack sounded in the valley.

Loti bolted, and tore through the valley, with the knowledge that men on horseback would quickly close the distance. Deprived of oxygen from a full out effort, her side began to ache dully, her chest felt tight, and the weight of the bow and satchel on her shoulder dragged her down. She stumbled with a whimper, her arms flailing for balance, still striving and driving forward towards the stream.

The rains finally came, leaking though the green roof of the forest. Sparks of light flickered, and the rumbling of distant thunder rolled past her ears.

She reached the foot of another hill aged by the elements, and followed a well used deer path up, along and over the crest. Loti cut into a gully that divided the hillside in two like an ancient gaping wound. Shallow and steep at first, it widened and deepened as she skipped along its rutted bottom.

There was a clearing ahead, an archway of trees calling her out of the dismal darkness of the woods and into the obscured light of day. Loti burst forth, the downpour of rain cascading over her like a waterfall, long strides carrying her across the pebbled shore and up the wide stream. The hillsides lining the valley rocked back and forth in a storm tossed dance. Each step she took sprayed more water over her, soaking her boots so they squished heavily with every step.

A feeling of paranoia overcame her, draining away the heat from her body.

There were eyes upon her; watching her in the expanse of the river valley.

Suddenly, two men, clad in the green cloaks and the leather and dragon scale armor of Rohan, shot forth from the woods, bearing down on her, swords drawn. Loti did not stop; instead, she sprinted for her life, her lungs and diaphragm laboring for air. Weighed down by their protective gear, she quickly out paced them, but her victorious joy was only temporary as three men on horseback, with lowered spears, charged down the center of the stream, the horse's prancing hooves spraying water as they galloped through the curtain of water bleeding from the heavens.

Loti screeched to a halt, turning to see two more armored riders on the opposite bank of the stream. She pivoted and tore back down the rivulet, only to realize the two men behind her were now five. Stopping again, she whirled, more men, more horses, with weapons drawn, gushed from the wood. She spun in a circle looking for an escape, her eyes stinging with rain.

There was none.

The Rohirric soldiers shouted, cursed, called her names.

Her fear gave way to panic.

She would not let them take her! She would beg for death first rather than be kept a prisoner!

But would they take their fiendish pleasure before killing her? Would they humiliate and demean her, stripping away any humanity she had remaining?

Now panic turned to desperation.

The sword was at her side, but she didn't bother drawing it. There were too many to fight off.

She sprinted back in the direction of the five men running in a line. Swiveling her body, she sidestepped, irrationally trying to plunge through a gap between two of them.

A man's arm reached out, seized her around the waist, his other hand clutched with deadly force at her throat causing her to wheeze uncontrollably and her eyes to feel like they were popping out of her head.

Then her instinct and training took over.

She pressed the rain slicked heel of her palm under his bearded chin as he tried to secure her, driving his head back, and thrust a brutally precise kick between his legs. He dropped to his knees in the water, clutching his injured manhood, and moaning. Instantly, from behind, she was ambushed by another solider who wrapped his pillar like arms around her waist, trapping her arms at her sides. She pressed back against him using her strong legs as leverage, wiggling, twisting, and trying to get free.

The men of Rohan swarmed around her, forming a loose circled display of might, on horse back or on foot. The man in the water gradually stood up, still protecting his shrunken crotch with one hand.

"Boy," he said with a voice that cracked in pain, "Now you're gonna get it!"

Loti saw the fist coming, felt it before he even struck. His arm cocked with a mallet like fist and landed a solid downwards blow to the side of her head.

She winced, clenching her jaw and fists, working out the pain as it came in waves. She saw black and sparkles behind her swelling eyelid. But she made no sound; she would not give an ignorant primitive that satisfaction.

Excited cheers went up from the men, and her captor tightened his grip.

Then everyone fell silent. There were the sounds of hasty steps in the stream, the dull shaking of chain mail and creaking of leather and the sight of men being parted. Two men in front of her were sharply pushed out of the way as the legendary figure of Eomer, King of the Riddermark barged into the security of the circle, sword in hand.

He didn't look as magnificent as he did that day in the marketplace. He was wet to the core, agitated, and powerfully intimidating.

He paused, paced a few steps, and the acknowledged her rain drenched captors with a curt nod of his head.

The Titan of the North fixed his menacing stare on her; his disturbingly calm wrath pouring down like the rain.

Loti lashed out with unrestrained kicks when he approached, coming painfully close to catching him between the legs also.

Jeers rose through the crowd, and shouts of encouragement for the King to retaliate.

The back of his hand tore across the side of her face, splitting open the corner and inside of her mouth. Loti gave a shrill, painful cry when he struck; the crack ringing in her ears. The metallic taste of blood pooled in her mouth and she felt the hot tingling in her face from his slap.

Eomer scowled, a look of confusion covering his face, and he glanced curiously at some of the soldiers.

He approached again, cautiously; keenly aware she could land another crippling blow with her legs.

"Stay away! Don't touch me!" Loti warned as she twisted in the man's arms.

Eomer paid her warning no heed and ripped the black cotton scarf from her head and face.

Murmured ripples of surprise came from some members of the horde, and EomerKing took a step back in disbelief, his expression a perplexing mix of emotions.

Loti smiled arrogantly at his preoccupation and shock, her white teeth stained red with blood.

Proudly, she spat out a mix of blood and saliva near him in the stream, her eyes locked on his.

"You hit like a girl," she taunted.

His jaw clenched, and he shifted his weight. She watched Eomer spin the drawn sword once in his hand, his knuckles white as they squeezed the leather grip.

But he said not a word.

She looked from his eyes, to his sword and back again.

"Do it," she implored coolly, summoning all the strength she had in those two words.

She prayed it would be soon and quick so she did not suffer, so she did not have time to think about how different her life could have been.

Eomer finally blinked; his face stoic and expressionless, realizing what she asked of him.

He looked down upon her, and for a long moment no words passed between them, only the contemplation of her open request. Unwilling to appear intimidated, Loti never dropped her eyes from his face, and his stare in return was glassy and racked deeply with thought.

His brow furrowed, and he turned, walking back the way he came, his men parting to let their King pass.

"Bring her!" he commanded.

"What? No!" she faltered and screamed, wrestling to get free as she was lifted off her feet.

The walk back to the camp was long, wet and difficult. It took two men to move her as Loti balked and struggled against their hold; sometimes dragging her though mud, other times carrying her when she simply ground to a halt.

Her worst fears were coming true. What Fat Fingers did would seem enjoyable compared to Eomer and his wild men molesting her for their own sick pleasure.

Could she summon the courage to kill herself if they attacked her? Was the terror of meeting death, to know she was going to die, preferable to being at the mercy of a malevolent King? She had seen it done once by a girl in the courtyard of the compound. It was sad to see such a beautiful girl die in such painful way.

But suicide was dishonorable, and she didn't think she was that brave. She would take her chances with Eomer. She would show him the will and strength of a southern woman could not be broken.

At the camp, it took four men to tie her hands as she squirmed like a poisonous snake clutched in the talons of an eagle, then forced her to sit, and tied her tightly to a tree.

Several men, including the King stood sporadically around her in the rain, as the man who held her satchel opened the flap. He produced a folded black fabric and handed it to Eomer who shook it open.

His mouth twisted in displeasure when he recognized it; a pennant embroidered with the white tree, silver crown and seven stars of the standard of Gondor.

Eomer's voice was firm and demanding when he spoke, "Why do you have this?"

Loti held her head high, resentful, and refusing to speak or to meet his eye.

He balled the black fabric in his large hand, his patience waning, and gestured with his other hand for the man to empty the remaining contents of the bag on the ground. Out spilled what few meager earthly possessions she owned; two bow strings tied in a circle, a map, a stone for sharpening her sword, the hairbrush, a bone handled knife, and-

"My book!" she cried, panic-stricken.

She watched as it tumbled mercilessly to the wet ground. Agony tore at her heart and soul. All the precious handwritten pages would be smeared from the rain! Her throat tightened and she fought back an unchecked urge to bawl. The only thing in the world she had, the only thing she loved and cared about, was utterly ruined.

Long sinewy fingers plucked the book from the wet grass. She followed the fingers, the hand, and the arm, to the cold, hard face of EomerKing. He looked down at her sitting in the mud, his soaked stringy hair and beard dripping with rain.

Eomer holding her book; it was like a dagger in her heart.

He raised an eyebrow, and looked with intrigue at the leather bound book, flipping it over in his hand.

Now he had leverage.

A fiendish smile drew slowly across his mouth. Tapping his fingers on the cover fortuitously, Eomer strode away, savoring his small victory while she cursed his name.


	4. Chapter 4 The King and the Captive

Author's Note:

Oh my gosh! I have gotten a ton of hits on this story! Way more than I ever imagined! But I only have 7 reviews, so please let me know what you think or please feel free to offer a constuctive critique!

Special thanks to Danu F. Ritchie who has a great story with Eomer and O/C. Highly recommend reading it! Called a Maiden of Rohan.

Extra special thanks to my Beta, Vanwa Lullaby. She's a great beta; supportive and constructive! She also has a very heartfelt story about Legalos visiting his mother's grave called Memory.

Thanks Lady Demiya for catching my blatantly obvious misspelling of Rohirrim... I'm from da nort... we pronounce da wordz a little bit diff'rent here, ya know...lol

Umm... Warning... Bad Language in this chapter. There are those who think that men in middle earth would not curse, but I respectfully disagree, and would be willing to debate this. If there is unimaginable evil, powerful love, death, hate, contentment, happiness, sex, or yes even homosexual behavior... my guess is there are ways to express feelings, and emotions whether good or bad. All languages have there own colloquialisms, slang and curse words. i mean, hell, within the first week of spanish class I knew all the common swear words! Men, after all, are men, and if they don't act like it then no one will believe in them. If you want to believe in these characters as real people who belong to real cultures, and societies, and who have real thoughts and emotions, then the character must be free to express him or her self in what ever way they see fit. Plus, I like my Eomer raw and rough around the edges! LOL!

* * *

There was the trickling of something on her face, running down her neck and into her shirt, and burning the cut near her swollen, bruised eye. She allowed a groan to escape from her throat, lifting her head from its tilted stiffness and feeling the crick in her neck.

Sleep had finally come after they gagged her mouth.

Loti had howled most of the day, shrieking for the return of her book, cursing Eomer and Rohan in any language she knew, kicking with her legs at anyone who passed, taunting the men, and when she ran out of ideas or things to say, she simply screamed. Near dusk, she knew the King had his fill of her hysterics, as several items flew out of his tent and he yelled, aggravated, to no one in particular,

"Somebody shut her up! I can't fucking think!"

She laughed in satisfaction when one man tied the cloth in her mouth and knotted it, even if it did grate sorely against the cut in the corner of her lips, and felt quite pleased with herself and her ability to rile an uncontrolled reaction from the King.

Still groggy, she felt two fingers against her skin, loosening the gag and prying it out of her mouth. She felt more of the trickling stream down her face, warm and wet.

Her senses stirred. She felt the aching numbness from sitting in the same position all night, her hands and feet were tingling from cold and the delectable smell of food and wood smoke brought her fully aware.

The morning light straining her eyes, Loti weakly opened them, as best she could, to see a large man. Kneeling next to her, he wore chain mail and an elaborate leather chest plate, although he was not armed, and his tangled blonde hair hung in his face. When he pushed it behind his ear, and raised his head, she realized, this was no ordinary man, but the King of Rohan.

She made a sound and turned away from him, strands of her long hair catching in the bark of the tree and prickling her scalp. It would take too much effort to fight him off; her head pounded with a piercing headache, her face was sore and her mouth was dry with thirst and the coppery tanginess of blood.

Eomer gently pressed a warm, wet cloth to her face, causing her to look back in his direction. He lifted her bound hands to the rag and replaced his hands with her own. She pulled the washcloth from her mouth to see it stained crimson with blood.

He was the first to speak.

"You are the girl from the market."

She pulled the cloth from her face again, brows and face lit in surprise. How could he have possibly remembered a dirty peasant girl from weeks ago?

"What is your name?" he demanded smoothly, his thick northern accent dripping with vibrato and certainty.

He slowly took the rag from her hands, as not to frighten her, rinsed it in the bowl of water next to him, and gave it back.

She did not want to see him, or be touched by him for that matter.

"I want my book back," she said, trying not to sound like a whining child, while avoiding his question.

Eomer threatened with a measured voice, "You'll get it back when I get what I want."

Tact had never been his strongest quality, and, at once, he knew he should have chosen his words more carefully.

Chest heaving and ire rising in her stormy blue eyes, she threw the wet cloth at him hatefully, striking him in the squarely in the chest.

"Bastard!"

Eomer whipped it back, displeased with her hostility and bullheadedness.

"Don't be difficult."

Again, Loti picked it out of her lap and promptly tossed is on the ground beside him.

"Stop it!" he scolded.

Beginning to lose his patience, he dropped the rag back in the bowl, wrung it out and prudently put it back in her hands.

Loti opened her mouth to tell him what he could do with himself, in a colorful and mean-spirited way, when she saw a plate of bread and cheese on the ground. She eyed the simple fare as a wolf stares down a deer from a great distance; hungry and waiting to strike. The empty hole in her stomach hurt and she felt like an emaciated skeleton.

Watching her salivate over such mundane food, he wondered when she had eaten last.

"Are you hungry?"

When her response was silent indifference, carefully, he offered her a mug.

This she was not too proud to refuse, and took it awkwardly. She emptied the whole cup, letting it spill down her chin, while quenching her thirst and eliminating the black taste from her mouth.

He then offered a hunk of bread, which she snatched from his fingers and ripped the soft chewy insides from the hard golden crust.

She chuckled inwardly at the image of the mighty King of the Mark waiting on a poor imprisoned girl.

Not resisting the urge to irk his supremacy, she asked while chewing, "Do you always wait on prisoners like a maidservant?"

"Only those foolish enough to get caught," he pricked in return, placing a hand on his thigh.

After finishing the bread, she pressed the cloth to her eye for a few more minutes, then flipped it helplessly into the water bowl and tried to loosen the blood encrusted bangs from her cheek and forehead.

She was startled by a touch that was not her own, as Eomer's fingertips grazed her forehead, plucking the matted hair gingerly from her face, and pushing it behind her ear. His fingers briefly brushed her neck and hesitantly followed the mane of hair to find the braided ponytail hidden in her coat. He lifted it out, stroking its silky brown length, and laid it over her shoulder.

"Spies are unwelcome trespassers in the Riddermark. What are you doing here?" he prodded severely.

Feeling indignant and pitied, she shrunk away from his delicate touch.

"I will never tell you anything! I don't need your help!" she hollered, kicking at the bowl of food and scattering its contents everywhere.

Rebuked and frowning unhappily, Eomer stood, and with a flip of his hand, he said gruffly, "Have it your way."

He turned and withdrew, spurned, but not defeated. There would be other days. She would talk if she valued her freedom.

Tolerant companionship and hunger beckoned Eomer to the fire, and he took a seat next to his childhood friend, Eothain.

He put a hand on his best friend's shoulder, giving it an exuberant shake and asked sportively, "How are the baby makers today?"

Eothain tightly closed his legs and grimaced, "Oo! That girl, she's got a wicked kick! My wife's gonna be so pissed!"

"It's more likely she'll be relieved," Eomer chided with a crooked smile.

Eothain, still sore and disinclined to remember the dark haired girl's knee in his groin changed the subject.

"She do any talking?"

Eomer could see the girl some distance away through the morning confusion of camp life, her head hung, and chin at her chest. She truly was a beautiful girl, even beaten and bruised, and he hoped she would not be too scarred from their attack. The black clothing she wore only highlighted her smooth sun kissed skin, the soft angles of her face and haunting dark blue eyes. She had the most unusual mark near her lip. In the Mark, they just called it what is, a mole! But in Gondor, were everything seemed to be of some sort of pompous significance, it was called the mark of the Valar, meaning she was blessed with the pure beauty and grace of the elves. He had seen this on a few Elven women, which led to a whole host of other questions he was certain this girl would not answer.

"Hey!"

Eothain's nudge in the arm brought him out of his thoughts, and he was handed a bowl of whatever was hot and cooking this morning; the same bland venison stew from yesterday.

"You learn anything?"

"Yah. She gives me a headache," Eomer quipped, then leaned forward in the chair, stirring the steaming bowl, "I remember her now. From Aldburg."

A big, lilting smile pulled at his friend's mouth, "Oh yah? You give her a royal screwing too? No wonder she's trying to kill you! You left her unsatisfied!"

Eothain made a crude gesture at his crotch and gave Eomer a playful shove while the other men sitting at the fire laughed boorishly. Eomer smiled and shook his head as he always did whenever he became the butt of Eothain's tasteless jokes. Thanks to Eothain and his cousin, Theodred, his promiscuity and countless not-so-romantic liaisons had become the stuff of legend amongst the Rohirrim. Eothain was also, possibly the most vulgar and crude man in all of the Riddermark, which was saying a lot, but he was also kind and generous, with a rather plain looking family he adored.

Eomer snorted, "No, I think I'd remember that one."

Eothain, who enjoyed any chance to embarrass his old friend, hooted, "There's so many, I'm surprised you remember any of them at all!"

"You're jealous," Eomer spoke jokingly with a mouthful of food, "I could teach your wife some new tricks if you want."

"No, thanks! I don't want you giving her some disease from those cattle you sleep with!"

Laughter rolled through the crowd around the fire and he shot his friend a dirty look, but as usual, Eothain paid him no mind.

His eyes drifted away from the vulgarity surrounding him, and back to the girl. Twenty, no more than twenty two years old, she huddled against the tree, now with her knees to her chest. She was hungry, tired, and cold.

He felt a strange sense of pity and concern regarding his unsubmissive captive. She was brave, if a bit reckless, but obviously troubled in a way he did not yet fully understand. She needed him now, even if she didn't want to admit it. And, reluctantly, he knew he needed her too.

Eothian broke into his stream of consciousness again, "So, if you didn't screw her, how do you know her?"

"Remember in the market, I bumped into her."

"Oh, yah," Eothain remarked snapping his fingers, "Wonder why she didn't try to kill you then."

Eomer exhaled and shrugged speaking between bites, "Don't know. She's scared, doesn't trust us… I can't say that I blame her."

"Why do you think she had that flag?"

Shaking his head, Eomer sucked on the tip of the spoon in contemplation.

Drawing his lips in to a thin line, he pointed the spoon in her direction, "That black scarf, don't Southerns wear those? She doesn't look southern, but she doesn't dress like a Gondorian either… Even the way she speaks. It's refined, no hint of an accent."

In twenty nine years, he had rarely, if ever, been out of the Riddermark until last year, and knew little about Southern culture, and even less about what clothing they wore, but he was not as ignorant as some would like to believe.

Breathing out heavily, Eomer continued thinking aloud, "She's defiantly a spy…But I don't get it… Who sends a single girl after a hundred armed men? How did she expect to get away?"

Eothain glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye, "Maybe she wasn't."

She wasn't supposed to get away... He hated admitting when Eothain was right.

"So she kills me, you kill her."

Eothain started breezily, "Two problems…"

Eomer raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"One stone," he finished, "Whoever sent her knew it would be suicide. They expected us to kill her."

"The way she talked yesterday, I think she expected it, if she got caught," Eothain hinted, unusually sober, "A good conspiracy always eliminates everyone who might be compromised…"

Eomer was sickened by the cruelty involved with sending a girl to her death, even if she herself was not so innocent. He was right to pity her.

Pensively, he scoffed, "I don't know any girls who grow up wanting to be killers."

He hesitated briefly before continuing, "She has information..."

What he would have to offer in trade for her to give that information freely was an entirely different question.

"I'll keep talking to her. See what I can find out."

"What are you going to do with her in the meantime?"

Eomer lifted his shoulders, unsure, and brought a mug of watered down ale to his lips.

"Why do you care?"

Eothain shoveled the last bite of food into his mouth and answered, "She's feisty. I like her. She reminds me of your sister."

Eomer coughed, nearly choking, and gave his friend a glare that would kill a lesser man.

His sister!

_Well, the girl certainly gets herself in trouble like my sister_, he thought wryly.

After a moment, Eothain turned to his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder.

In a hushed voice, he poked, "If you're gonna get yourself killed today, try to knock some girl up first. I'd hate to see that fairy future husband of your sister's beat you to it!"

Eothain posed, stroking his chin philosophically, mocking the scholarly Steward of Gondor; Eomer's future brother in law. Before he could sneak around his chair, Eothain was caught in the stomach with a backhanded slap from his friend.

"Ghaw! Baby talk. You're worse than my sister!"

Eothain wasn't just his closest friend, but his favorite unofficial advisor. Although Eothain was two years older, they had grown up together, spending long summers running like unsupervised hooligans through the streets of Aldburg. He had always been a joker, but fiercely loyal, even if Eomer never enjoyed the kidding about his sister, Eowyn.

Standing, Eomer left his bowl and spoon on his chair, and proceeded to prepare for the day's patrol.

He tried to put the girl from his mind.

She would be there when he returned.

For Loti, her first day with the Rohirrim was endlessly long. Her first day, but surely, she thought, not her last. The ground were she sat was still damp, as were her clothes and boots, which made her feet itch. She shifted frequently trying to bring feeling back to her aching arms and benumbed backside. For the most part, she was left to her own devices, with only the occasional offer of water or weak ale.

Entertainment for an incarcerated female captive was limited, so she passed the time as she had in her room in Umbar near the palace; with silence, apprehension and wandering thoughts. She watched the handful of men who did not ride out with Eomer as they went about their daily chores, thinking she might learn something about camp routines in the unlikely event she could escape. Plans of escape became daydreams as the day wore on and the warming afternoon sun speckled through the trees draping over her like a blanket of lace. The sun's warmness and her indulgent imaginative thoughts lulled her into a light sleep. She stirred again at the sound of commotion and the merry banter of tired and hungry men returning from the day's excursion.

After dusk, she saw a large man approaching. In the dim firelight, she could tell he was the same man who was on the receiving end her knee in the stream and, by their constant good natured ribbing and harmless teasing, this man must also be in Eomer's closest circle.

Loti curled her legs to her chest in an act of protection. There was no telling if he would hammer her again with his huge hands.

He knelt beside her, setting down an bowl and cup, and reached behind his back. When she saw the flash of a dagger blade in the faint firelight, she squirmed, trying to scoot away.

"Relax," he teased with a slight laugh, and cut the rope binding her hands.

He offered her the wooden bowl and she peered precariously inside.

"It ain't much," he sympathized, "But we can't have you waste away either. You're so skinny! I think you disappear when you turn sideways!"

The contents of the bowl contained only one item, some kind of meat in a brownish sauce with a lonely piece of bread floundering on the edge.

Gnawing off a piece of bark from the tree she was tied against looked more appetizing.

As she still stared into it questionably, his eyebrows furrowed together.

"It's safe," he assured, "Here…"

He grabbed the spoon and scooped a piece of meat out of the bowl and into his mouth.

"See," he said chewing and speaking at the same time, "It might kill you, but not 'cause it's poisoned!"

Reluctantly, Loti brought a spoonful to her mouth and ate.

She grimaced and coughed, shaking her head and flaring the muscles of her neck.

"It's a little salty," he added apologetically.

"A little," she replied sarcastically, pressing her tongue against the burning cut at the corner of her mouth.

She dug the bread from the lake of gravy and handed back the bowl.

"You know," he began, sounding remorseful and shifting slightly, "If I would've known you were a girl, I wouldn't have hit you. But then again, maybe you're lucky it was me and not my wife! She'll be plenty mad at you if I can't get my cock up again!"

He chuckled, and handed her the mug.

Watching her drink and munch slowly on the crusty bread, he continued, "I'm Eothain."

Inclining his head towards the camp, he said, "I'll be around."

She turned to him as he pushed himself up, feeling the need to take advantage of this opportunity.

"Hey," she implored as pathetically as she could muster and playing on his sympathies, "Can I get up and walk around?"

Scratching his poorly maintained blonde beard, Eothain nodded and smiled impishly in a way that made her a bit worried.

With a wink, he concluded, "I'll see what I can do."

She followed him with her eyes as he poked his head inside Eomer's tent, and quickly exited. Eomer emerged from his tent a short while later, shirtless, and clad only in a pair of loose, drawstring linen pants.

_Oh no_, she thought when he looked in her direction, catching her eye.

She looked away, embarrassed to be seen staring at his bare chest. She again realized the same feelings of overwhelming physical attractiveness she had a few weeks before.

Eomer was not as bulky and brutish as his thick, protective armor made him appear. He was long and lean with moderately cut chest and abdomen that would be both firm and supple yet soft to the touch. The muscles of his neck, shoulders and biceps were well defined and veins bulged from the skin of his forearms; evidence he could wield a broadsword with deadly force in either left or right hand. A flush of heat spread throughout her body, as she let her eyes settle on his flat belly and the trail of dark blonde hair that ran down its length and disappeared somewhere beneath the fabric of his flimsy linen pants. Dreamily, she recalled the following the line of hair down Theodred's hard stomach with her fingertips or lips to find the not so subtle secret he hid beneath the blankets.

Eomer pulled a loose-fitting, white shirt over his head as he walked, flipping out the ends of his long hair with one hand. Also, she noted he was barefoot and carried a very large, evil-looking knife.

Wordlessly, Eomer knelt, holding both her wrists in one hand, and bound her hands tightly with a length of rope that lay nearby. Using the injurious knife, he cut the knot from the rope that tied her to the tree, freeing Loti to shake the bonds loose and stretch her sore back.

Grabbing her under the soft part of the arms, he hauled her upright in one swift motion.

Loti swayed unsteadily on her feet, feeling faint, as the blood rushed to her head from standing too quickly. Her forehead fell into the hollow of his chest and she smelled the scent of soap and sun from his clean shirt.

And she was sure she smelled like the backside of his horse.

Still holding her by the arms, he pushed her back. Knife in hand, Eomer tightly gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger, tipping the side of her head into the mix of moon and firelight. He felt her straighten with tension and suck in her breath at the sight of the knife so close to her face. Examining her more closely, he noticed the strain in the muscles of her square jaw, but her darting, wild, almond shaped eyes told him more than body language ever could.

Fear.

She was overcome with it and she lashed out not necessarily in anger, but in self preservation.

If done properly, he could use that fear to his advantage.

Gently letting go of her injured face, he promised, "I'll have some one look at your cuts tomorrow."

He led her through the camp and along the edge of a grove of trees, his hand securely around her arm. There was a distinct uneasiness about her and she tugged against the vigor of his grip, trying to keep a distance between them.

Alone now, he stopped twisting the knife distractedly between his fingers and placed it against the small of his back inside the waistband of his pants.

Again Eomer spoke first.

"Tell me your name."

Loti kept her head turned from him out of both fright and disobedience.

She heard him breathe out heavily in frustration.

"Where are you from?"

She still refused to speak and unable to use her arms for balance, Loti stumbled over an uneven patch of ground.

Eomer's strength kept her from falling and he forced her to face him by grabbing her other arm.

"We can't help each other if you won't talk," he coaxed.

The moon was full and the light cast a silvery glow on the steadfast features of his face. He glistened with a raw masculinity that made him radiate like the god he worshipped. His light blue eyes flashed with a vacillation between concern and distain, and his untrimmed, dark blonde beard could not hide the tension carried in his jaw as he clenched his white teeth together.

He was undeniable handsome even without trying, and there was likely no red blooded woman who could resist his presence.

His closeness, though, was a reminder that he could hurt her in any way he wanted.

Loti gathered together all of her courage, knowing she was at the mercy of his power and will.

Looking into his eyes, she said with calm defiance, "You are my enemy. I will never tell you anything."

Eomer cocked a cynical eyebrow, and his voice dripped with contempt, "The assassin's creed? How touching."

Jerking her by the arm, he compelled her to walk again.

"You will talk eventually."

He spoke with authority, as a man of indomitable confidence, unshaken by self doubt. Nevertheless, she tossed, "I think not! What makes you think I need your help?"

He stopped abruptly, and whipped her around, digging his fingers under the muscles of her thin arms. She winced in pain and pushed her fists against his chest hoping he would ease his grip.

"I'm trying to be easy on you because you're a woman!" he growled through bared teeth.

"Well," Loti baited his hot headedness, "If listening to you badger me with questions is the easy way, then I'll choose the hard way."

He lifted a hand to assault her face again, but stopped short. She stood as tall as her petite figure would allow under his towering enormity; never flinching, never blinking or turning her head. He concluded, scared, yes she was, but intimidated by him, she was not.

Seeing him drop his hand, she blurted thoughtlessly, "Asshole!"

Eomer shook her belligerently as if she were a rag doll instead of a full grown woman; his great hands squeezing the nerves in her muscles, making her fingers tingle with fire.

He threatened steadily, but intensely, cocking his head in domination, "You wallowing whore, I've never hit a woman before, don't make me start now."

"I'll make you wish you would've killed me!"

"I think I already do," he lamented, his words rimmed with icy despisal.

Barely able to control his flaring temper, he dragged her back to through the camp to the tree, forcing her to run to keep up with his long steps.

Whirling her around in a blur of hip length brown braids, he commanded, "Sit."

Watching as she held her chin up in out right defiance, he bellowed, "Sit!"

When she still refused to obey, he held out his arms in vexation.

He would let her choose.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way?"

Pursing her lips together impertinently, Loti taunted, "The hard way."

Eomer's chest heaved with exasperation, and he bit his lip as he looked up to the night sky.

_Bema, _he prayed,_ give me the strength not to wring her bloody neck_!

Of a sudden, he reached out, shoving her in the chest and she thrust back against the tree. She heard the dull crack of her head against the bark, and a shadow of black dotted with exploding white pinpoints covered her eyes. With a souring moan, her knees buckled and she slumped down to the ground.

Eomer put his hands on his hips, triumphantly.

"That was the easy way."

Unhurried, he tied her securely back to the tree, cinching the rope as tight as possible.

She lost track of him for a while; his goading words arousing her own churlish temper and causing a throbbing headache. He stalked back a short while later carrying what she recognized as a green cloak of the Rohirrim. Eomer tossed it over her, purposely covering her head, spun on his bare heel and started back to his quarters.

Wiggling her head out from beneath what was now an impromptu blanket, she spit out caustic curse.

"Your mother was a wailing whore, you…you _ass-fucking_ barbarian!"

Eomer came to a dead stop, and turned, slowly. His expression was one of unmanageable restraint as he crossed the short distance between them.

Wrapping her hair around his hand, she squealed when he yanked sharply on a braid, and gasped when he pulled harder. The distrust, suspicion and anxiety emanating from her were tangible as he drew her ear to his mouth.

If his body was under control, his voice certainly was not.

"I gave you a choice. You chose wrong!" he whispered corrosively.

His lips were so near their mere presence tickled her ear and his deep throaty voice and bullying manor sent shivers of crawling goose bumps from her scalp to toes.

"Don't you _ever_," he jerked the braid for emphasis and listened to her chirp in pain, "Ever, speak of my mother again."

He flipped the braid in her face and left, allowing her to massage her injured pride and scalp.

Loti squirmed in an attempt to spread the green mantle over her evenly, and snuggled the finely woven wool fabric under her chin. She inhaled the familiar spicy, masculine scent of the of the cloak- Eomer's cloak.

Before sleep took her, she pondered the contradiction that was Eomer, King of the Mark.

The next two days were very similar to the first. Eomer kept his word and sent a man to examine her blackened eye, sliced, fat lip and the new tender, bulging protuberance on the back of her head. By the look of indifference and annoyance on the King's face after her rudimentary examination, apparently, she would survive.

Eothain, an overly exuberant lover of early mornings, would come to break her nightly fast with food fit for neither man nor beast, while Eomer the Insomniac came in the evening to trade repetitive questions for crankiness and spiteful name calling.

The fourth day Loti woke to find both Eothain and Eomer standing over her as she huddled for warmth inside Eomer's green cloak. The impressive blonde warlords looked like rough hewn, stone statues as they stood side by side fully armored in leather and steel and heavily armed.

She could hear the hustle and bustle of the camp behind them, and craned her neck to see the commotion. The men of the Mark were systematically and efficiently dismantling the campground; packing away everyday conveniences, folding tents and loading wagons and beasts of burden.

They were moving out.

And Loti knew where the King would lead them.

South.

She had seen the correspondence between the Kings of Gondor and Rohan requesting the assistance of the Rohirrim.

Eomer snatched the crude blanket from her, tossing it aside, and reached behind his back to produce the same dangerous knife she had seen only days before.

He asked, pointing the knife at her before slicing the ropes that held her to the tree, "Can you ride?"

She shrugged out of the bonds.

"You're taking me with you," she stated.

"Unless you'd prefer to rot in the snake pit at Edoras for the next eight months. I think I might find a use for you yet."

Again, he asked, "Can you ride?"

Without proper use of her hands, Loti twisted clumsily on her knees, in an undignified attempt to stand. To keep her from tipping over, Eomer extended a gracious hand. Not wanting his pity or help Loti parted her lips, rolled her tongue and promptly spit on the outstretched hand.

She would submit to none of the uses he had in mind.

"You'll use me for nothing!"

With his patience disintegrating, Eomer kept his composure long enough to wipe his hand on his pants and give orders to Eothain.

"Take her shoes," he said through clenched teeth, "She walks…Everywhere."

Eomer put a well placed boot in her chest, knocking her back to the ground in a pile, and gestured again with the knife, "This is the easy way."

Already feeling the pain of walking barefoot, Loti looked pleadingly at Eothain, who shrugged, "Can't say he didn't give you a chance."

When Eomer was out of earshot, Eothain raised an eyebrow and muttered, "If this is the easy way, I'd hate to see the hard way."

At least they were headed in the right direction_._

Although she hated to admit it, Eomer was right. Moving south with him was considerably more desirable than being shipped to Edoras to await his return. This way there was still the possibility of escape. In Edoras there would be the doleful trifecta of darkness, disease, and death, along with the ever present threat of rape.

The rope, with which she was tethered, pulled taught and Loti stumbled forward, stepping on another jagged piece of gravel that gouged into the arch of her foot.

_Escape…_, she ridiculed herself.

Where would she escape to?

She had no family or friends to fall back on, and no skills to earn a living.

The only constant in her life was the compound in Umbar.

The rope jerked again, and Loti let out a whimper; a cross between the pains of her raw, battered feet, and the stinging remembrance of her humiliation after her inability to eliminate Theodred.

She needed to kill Eomer in order to return home. Or die trying. At this point she would not meet her contact in Minas Tirith, so it did not matter when or how or where, as long as Eomer was dead.

Then she could go home.

She could go home and everything would return to normal.

She knew what she could expect at home. Over time, she had become accustomed to the dysfunction and abuse there; like she had become used to killing and enticing men to take her to bed. It was a place of security that no one or nothing else offered. Here, the uncertainty of strange men in a strange land and the daily unknown of Eomer's hot temper left her feeling morbidly irrational.

Until then, she would just have to bide her time and wait for the perfect opportunity to get close to him.

And she would get her book back. If she had to scoop him apart, bit by unforgiving bit, with a rusty spoon, she would get her book back!

The parade of horses, men and wagons seemed to be coming to a halt. The day was waning and Loti desperately hoped the procession would stop for the night. The Great West Road was not so great. Horribly neglected and besieged by war, it was riddled with ruts, and blighted by bottomless potholes that caused the wagon she trailed behind to jostle. She would then lurch forward, unprepared, and scuffle ungainly across the gravel. Her feet were bruised, cut, and bloody, after what she thought must have been a twenty five mile walk, and each step was laborious and an effort of sheer willpower to take.

Eomer was trying to break her, and he was coming very close.

Loti collapsed against the wagon with a squawking grunt of appreciation. She defiantly felt broken.

After dark she curled into a ball beside the wagon's wheel, her hands tied around one of the wheel's spokes. She heard Eomer coming, and feigned sleep, hoping he would forgo his nightly question and no-answer session. He stopped and she listened as he knelt and let out a long exhausted breath. Then she felt the enveloping warmth of his cloak as he gently laid it over her, and dutifully covered her up to the shoulders. He lingered, and proceeded to interrupt her solitary peace with, "I know you're not sleeping."

Her eyes suddenly opened with a flash and she sat up as if the ground were a bed of red hot coals.

Feelings of neglect, misuse, and humiliation burst to the surface and Loti's words smoldered, "Haven't you done enough! If you want me dead, do it already! Don't keep dragging me around like a war prize, you wretched excuse for a man!"

Eomer rocked back on his heels.

There was something familiar about her hate, and her rage… Something familiar in her tone, her words, her eyes; something he had failed to notice before now.

Her anger, her loathing, her undampened spirit to fight against his will went far beyond duty. It was a deep, penetrating, personal hatred of him that bit venomously in to every fiber of her being and consumed her entirely.

"What did I do to you that makes you hate me so much?" he urged.

He could see she wanted to say it.

She wanted to say it in the way her chest heaved heavily; rising and falling with each exhausting breath. In the way she bit her teeth together. In the way she glared up at him under creased eyebrows that marred the loveliness of her blemished face. It was there, just under the surface, ready to erupt like a volcano, bringing with it unbearable heat, fury and death.

But she reigned in the need, as if saying it would hurt her more than him.

"It's why you're here, isn't it," he ventured, "What you won't say… It's why you hate me."

Eomer could see her internal struggle. The need to keep a secret that might make her vulnerable versus a desire to scream slanderous epithets at him in an illogical release of frustration.

"Tell me. I can help you."

He wanted to reach out, touch her, tell her he would not cause her any harm if she explained. But he refrained. She would come to her own conclusions about his intentions.

"Help me?" she hissed.

Then she let it out, the dam of her inhibitions bursting, "You killed my brother! He was just a boy, and you offered him no mercy! My mother died of heartache because of it! How do you plan to help with that!"

Eomer broke away from her gaze, realizing what was so familiar about her anger. He had seen that uncontrolled resentment before… in himself. They shared the same loss of family, of a connection and an unconditional love that could never be replaced. And if they were alike in any way, there would be no words that would give her comfort. She did not want apologies. She wanted action; and killing him was the way to right wrongs done unto her.

"I've killed a lot of men," he acknowledged quietly and with out pride, "But that is my burden to carry. Not yours, and I will not apologize for it.

"You're right, it is your burden!" Loti bit poisonously, "Not apologize? The only thing I want from you is to die! You're a killer and an animal! I know what you'll do with me! I will choose death before that!"

"Animal?" he repeated, fighting back aggravation, "What have you heard that I will do with you?"

"You'll sell me to some man, some lord, who'll want to make me his whore. I know that's what you do to women. I'm surprised you haven't used me yourself!"

Eomer's face clouded. Sell her? Into Slavery? Is this what was said about him? That he bedded women without their consent and then peddled them like common chattel to men for exploitation. She actually believed he would engage in such depraved acts as slavery and rape?

"You think I'm going to rape you and then make you a slave?" he asked quizzically.

Saying those words, even thinking there were men who did such despicable things, especially to women, made his stomach turn.

"This is what you've heard? This is what you've been told?"

He shook his head, dumbfounded. She was out of her mind.

"Well, you are a pretty girl," he laughed, absurdly, "I could probably get a lot of money for you. But money means nothing to me. So I guess I'll just keep dragging you around, torturing myself, listening to you howl like a bitch in heat."

Watching her mouth pucker, he jumped forward, pressing one leathery smelling hand over her bruised mouth and another behind her head.

He squeezed tightly and suddenly very serious, he strongly advised, "If you spit on me again, I'll cut out that pretty tongue. My generosity only extends so far. Do you understand me?"

Loti nodded, his dirt encrusted hands still clenched about her head. She easily could have bit his finger, but held back, wary of his rather impulsive, unpredictable nature.

His definition of generosity was his alone.

When he finally did let go, after an exchange of glares testing the mettle of the other, Loti yelled after a departing Eomer, "Cocksucker!"

Eomer's voice also pierced the quiet, cool night, "Dirty bitch!"


	5. Chapter 5 What A Man Wants

Author's Note:

Thanks again for reading if you have gotten this far! Again, please feel free to review and I will respond!

Warning... Adult themes and situations!

I hope Loti's irrational behavior is clear... I tried to keep most of this chapter light or funny since towards the end it gets a little heavy... but that is what propels her actions for the rest of the story... And I hope I will leave you wanting more at the end!

* * *

"Wake up, Sleepy."

Lying on her side, Loti popped opened one weary eye to find Eothain shaking her and her shoulder back in to the glaring bright of morning.

As usual, he was cheerful and talkative.

"How are the feet today?"

"They hurt," she confessed blandly.

Hurt was a very mild term. Her feet pulsed with a dull pain, and the small cuts that had scabbed over, pulled apart with a twinge if she wiggled her toes, or if they got caught in the brushed wool fibers of the cloak.

Slicing the bonds that tied her to the wagon, Eothain tipped his head as she sat up, and caught a glimpse of the swollen and rock pierced soles.

"Looks like it," he responded and she observed there was possibly empathy in his voice.

Unlike his counterpart, Eomer, Loti was no longer fearful of Eothain or his intentions and he had taken a very fatherly liking to the young woman the Rohirrim now called Girl.

In addition to food and high spirits he brought every time she saw him, Eothain like to talk about home. Loti was beginning to think she knew more about his family than she did of her own, and as he handed her a slice of the sharp, pungent orange cheese the northern men enjoyed all too frequently, she needed an answer to a question.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

It seemed rather odd that he should attend to her with such concern and friendliness after she slammed him in the ballocks and tried to kill his sovereign and friend.

"Oh," he stated, twisting the corner of his mouth in concentration and narrowing one blue eye slightly.

Before he could answer though, the harshness of another voice startled them, barking a command from a few yards away.

"Eothain!"

Turning at the sound of his name, Eothain griped familiarly, "Whaaat?"

Eomer stood in his armor, arms outstretched, looking particularly testy.

"Quit making friends with it! Get it up, let's go!"

Bringing his attention back to Loti, Eothain rolled his eyes at Eomer's chastising and impatience.

"Don't pay no attention to him," he remarked to Loti, his voice growing noticeable louder, "He needs to get laid."

"Hey!" Eomer growled back clearly annoyed, "I'm standing right here!"

Eothain grasped her under the arms and hoisted Loti to her feet to the satisfaction of the King who skulked off. She grimaced and gasped acutely as if she were standing on razor sharp shards of broken glass mixed with hot coals and deadly scorpions.

He shoved several pieces of bread and cheese in her coat pockets in anticipation of the day's journey.

"So why am I so nice, huh? Well," he remarked frankly, "We're all people."

Pausing for a moment, a sly smile curled his lips and he tossed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a now invisible Eomer, "Besides, you remind me of his sister."

Eothain chuckled introspectively at a joke only he understood.

"I've got a soft spot for her, even if she is a royal pain in the ass!"

He tethered her to the wagon and gave a reassuring pat on the rump when she looked worried and dejected.

The first few miles went well enough, but mid morning, she started in again.

Eomer could hear her from the rear of the procession, her high pitched yells splitting through the fresh air, ruining the beauty of the day. It wasn't what she shrieked about him; the belittling names, demeaning his heritage and disparaging his manhood. He had heard much worse in the taverns and public houses of the Westmark. It was her persistence.

She just didn't quit! The girl was relentless! For miles she went on and on, coming up with new and innovative ways to cause him grief. Eomer knew if he didn't complain no one else would, but how did she not give every man present a headache rivaling that of a hangover after a night of drinking bad wine?

After several miles of listening to her malign him as a savage, he couldn't take anymore.

Pressing the heels of his palms into his temples, he complained, "Doesn't she ever stop?"

He could hear Eothain next to him, as they rode side by side, stifling a snicker with a turn of his head. It was perfectly obvious he was bursting at the seams to say something but gagged himself on his laughter instead.

"Whatever it is you want to say, just say it," Eomer grumbled.

Eothain snorted in release of pent up jocularity and jested, "I thought we were getting rid of your sister!"

Not only did Eothain find this comment amusing but some of Eomer's surrounding guard also cracked up; releasing some of their serious demeanor.

Tossing his head back like a little boy about to throw a tantrum over a confiscated toy, he exclaimed, "Fuck!"

Reining his horse around severely, Eomer barged inconsiderately into the paths of others, and trotted to the rear of the caravan. He motioned for the driver of the wagon to stop and approached Loti, still astride his horse. With one hand on his thigh, he leaned on the pommel of the saddle, and repressed his flaring temper with a contrite and raspy,

"Shut up!"

"What took you so long?" Loti snapped in response.

Screeching at the top of her lungs seemed to be the only way to illicit a response from Eomer. She was tired, filthy and in dire agony. She couldn't walk another step, and felt as though she preferred to be dragged along by the wagon, instead of enduring one more mile in her bare feet. Cracks were beginning to creep slowly and steadily up her walls. He was no longer just trying; he would break her, she knew that now, it was just a matter of when and how.

There was a tightening in her throat as she tried not to choke out the words, "I can't keep going."

Looking down, Eomer responded dispassionately, "Too bad."

She drew in a deep breath that made her shoulders rise, indicating there was more wailing yet to be heard and watched Eomer as he shifted restlessly in the saddle.

Before she could utter another sound he ran his hands over his face, bedeviled, and commanded, "Stop!"

There was a momentary pause as his mental struggle to decide how to make the screaming stop permanently became physical and he fidgeted atop his horse. He hated to give into her demands. She asked for this punishment when she spit on his gallantry and a rather agonizing punishment it was. But she was still a woman, and it pained him to see her in distress. She had taken it bravely the day before, not whining or complaining once. Perhaps now he was being unreasonable and excessive. Hopefully, this time she had learned not to buck his authority.

There was another reason he considered ending her suffering. A much more practical and less emotional one; she was slowing down their progress.

Finally, without any sort of enthusiasm, he proposed, "If I let you ride with me will you promise to shut up?"

Loti shook her head, taking a step back, and replied timidly, "I don't want to ride with you."

"It's either ride with me where I can keep an eye on you, or walk. You decide."

His words carried a hint of strain and quarrelsomeness.

Loti nodded as unwillingly as he proposed the idea, and Eomer dismounted gracefully, throwing a leg over the horse's neck and sliding to the ground. He freed her from the bondage of the wagon, and slapped the side, indicating for the driver to move forward with the rest of the company.

Eyeing Eomer's horse, Firefoot, warily, he shuttled Loti with caution to the equine's head. Firefoot was a horse of unquestioned orneriness, and even his master had difficulty controlling the charcoal gray stallion on occasion. She had seen the beast trying diligently to nibble on Eomer's long hair, or lunging with his large teeth to bite into a chain mail clad shoulder. Eomer seemed unconcerned about these acts of animalistic treachery, but gave specific orders to Loti.

"Let him smell you, and don't walk behind him. He kicks worse than you."

He slapped the horse's rump affectionately.

"He knows what you're saying so watch your mouth. But I'm sure that won't be a problem for you," Eomer finished acerbically.

Loti ignored her new riding partner's facetiousness and went about becoming acquainted with her new transportation instead. Firefoot, like his master, was freakishly tall, solid as iron, and grimly intimidating. His chest and shoulders were broad and muscular, as were his thick hindquarters. Her head barely reached the top of his withers, but his serpentine neck and braided dark mane extended high above her short stature. It seemed the only beast nearing Firefoot's size in the traveling party was Eomer himself.

Cupping her rope-bound hands, she reached out to the charger's nose, lightly stroking its velvety softness. He nudged against her hands several times, and bobbed his head appreciatively. Swishing his braided tail excitedly, Firefoot lowered his head and nuzzled her repeatedly until she tittered like a nest of baby birds and scratched his long forehead.

Eomer looked on with intense consternation as his prisoner and horse became friends.

"Animals like me," Loti shrugged, rather aloof.

Displeased, Eomer grabbed the bridle, shouldered Loti's coltish influence away, and forced Firefoot to look at him out of one dark marble-like eye.

"Traitor," he mumbled.

The horse shook his head and mane wildly in response, and the motion reverberated playfully, rippling across the rest of his body.

With his party disappearing down the road, Eomer boosted Loti into the saddle and settled in behind her, wrapping an arm around her narrow waist. Nickering a command only his equine companion understood, Eomer wheeled Firefoot with one hand and set off down the road.

The days dawned cool in the early spring of northern Gondor and sometimes a light sprinkling of icy frost dusted the grasses as they slept along the roadside. For a girl from the south, where there were typically only two kinds of temperatures, dry sultry hot and muggy stifling hot, even Eomer's cloak could not protect her from the elements. If repulsed about the idea at first, Loti began to see the advantages of riding with Eomer.  
Sitting between his muscular thighs, with his arm around her middle pressing them together, the man was warm, if uncompanionable. In fact, the King of the Mark was practically a human furnace. On especially chilly days, when the last vestiges of winter brought dark skies, brisk northern winds and cold drizzle, he would wrap them both in his cloak, and Loti imagined they looked like a right pair of lovers atop the great horse, huddled in very intimate, and personal way. Occasionally she would fall asleep, dozing off when the warmth of their bodies or the monotony of the terrain outshined the need for vigilance. She would awake to find herself cradled against his shoulder, his arm just under her breasts securing her body against his as though she _were _his lover.

Loti assumed his reasons for riding together were more than just mere convenience. He was interested in gaining her trust as well as information. And strangely, she found herself feeling, to some extent, less afraid. Eomer was a man of quick temper, enormous size, and extreme power; if he wished to hurt her physically or sexually, he could easily do so. But instead, more often than not, he offered comfort. They still lashed out at each other in hate or spitefulness, but under the advisement of Eothain, Loti held her tongue in check for the most part. The range of punishments in Eomer's imagination seemed to be limitless, and she didn't want to experience any more than one at a time.

The Rohirrim rode hard and fast now that their barefoot female prisoner was relegated to the King's saddle. Firefoot, being a well trained war horse of great endurance, easily bore the burden of both his weighty master and a lithe captive.

Eomer chose not to follow the Great West Road south though the Rammas Echor, presumably because he wished not to make a requisite formal stop in Minas Tirith.

Instead, much to Loti's dismay, upon reaching the northeast edge of the Druadan Forest, they branched off on to an equally dilapidated road headed due east.

Eomer's reluctance to travel near Minas Tirith meant fording the River Anduin in order to reach the Harad Road, which would take them straight south. Luckily, this part of the great river was narrow, and slow flowing. What little spring thaw there was had come weeks ago returning the river to a relatively shallow state. Low banked and smoothly bottomed; even the wagons had no real difficulty making the crossing.

Loti had asked for the return of her boots, but Eomer had refused, saying her feet were too swollen, and if she did get them on, she might never get them off. Silently admitting he was probably right, and that it was also a smart deterrent against escape, she dangled her feet in the chilly water, letting it soothe the achy soles.

Leaning over the neck of her four-legged ferry, Loti caught a glimpse of her reflection in the river's waters. She gasped, let out a squeak, and flung her hands and arms over her head to cover her face. Her sudden motion shook both horse and saddle and spooked Eomer, who crushed her to him with both arms, and pressed his weight over her to keep them from toppling into the river. Annoyed, he ripped her hands from her head and placed them back on the pommel.

"What in the blue heavens is wrong with you?" Eomer growled.

Loti bleated, "Why didn't you tell me what I looked like?"

He leaned in, perusing the side of her face, and catching her eye.

Settling back, he said succinctly, "You look like death."

She slumped over in despair as far as Eomer's grip across her belly would allow. He was right!

The areas of her eye and mouth were variegated shades of blue, purple, and black, edged with red and yellow; the tell tale signs of an aging bruise. The cuts in the corner of her eye and mouth were crusted and scabbed with blood and her lip was still slightly puffy.

And her hair! The braids she could see; the interlocking plaited strands were loosened and bulging erratically. But the top of her head looked like a birds nest; disheveled, pulled, wispy, and snarly.

Was she a girl, or wild boar?

Judging by the look of aversion on Eomer's face, wild boar she was!

In all her years of training she had been beaten far worse and had injuries far more extensive than this, but they had always taken great care not to strike her in the face. Her beauty and her body were all she had remaining and it seemed Eomer was determined to take those from her as well.

Loti tugged against his arm, wishing to be free of his physical mastery and mental tyranny, and worked her fingers between his arm and her belly, as his embrace tightened.

Grappling uneasily in the saddle alongside a dozen other horses in the middle of the river, Eomer demanded stressfully, "Damn you, girl, what's wrong _now_?"

Loti cried out, "I hate you!"

A few days later, Loti sat up, stiff.

She had been resting absent-mindedly against Eomer's chest when-

"Is there a problem?" she asked with discretion, suddenly aware of a bulge in her back that hadn't been there before.

It appeared she was not the only thing stiff in the saddle…

It seemed Eomer exposed her to the only area of his body not clad in chain mail, leather, or articulated steel.

"The problem is your ass!"

Eomer pulled her hips against him tightly, closing up what little space there was between them, and forcing her to feel his sexual frustration.

"Stop squirming!" He grunted in her ear.

Pushing Loti away as far forward as she could go in the saddle, he adjusted himself carefully. Both his temples and crotch pulsed silently in unbelievably obscene urges. He was hard as granite.

It was a constant battle for personal space while they rode together, and there was barely enough room in the saddle for him, let alone another person, no matter how petite she was. She had wiggled against him for the better part of a week, and between the motion of the horse and her rubbing that curvaceous ass against him, he was quite aroused.

And why shouldn't he be?

He was a man with a veracious appetite for women, and she was mesmerizing, even if she did have the personality of a rattlesnake. He was almost always touching her in some way, and when she was quiet, it was somewhat enjoyable to feel such a small, young, feminine body. His chest to her back, his arm feeling the soft weight of her breasts as he held her, and occasionally resting his hand on the inside of her leg. She was basically sitting in his lap!

_Shit!_

Sometimes being friends with Eothain had its disadvantages. They were more like brothers than friends, each knowing the other's quirks, habits and idiosyncrasies.

He was distracted, irritable, and…

Eothain was right. He needed to get laid.

And thinking about it made his current predicament even worse.

Everyday he felt as if he were taking her from behind; rocking with her as one in a gentle rhythm that made him ache with unfulfilled desire and the need for a woman to end his suffering.

One woman!

Any woman!

Eomer glanced down, contemplatively. The girl was convenient and he wondered briefly how much coaxing it would take to convince her into one night of wild, uncontrolled hate fucking. But coaxing meant unwilling and there was no fun in taking a woman who wouldn't give back.

He admitted grudgingly, by now, she would be completely resistant to his charms anyway.

And besides, just because she was as wild as a bear cub didn't mean she was without her honor. Impatience and urgency were driving his need and he didn't want a woman he had to teach. He needed a woman who knew the heat and demand of physical love; one who knew her way around a man's body, one who knew how to please herself, one who would give him the release he so painfully needed. Although, complications of love or attachment need not and probably should not be involved.

Eomer wished she would make and offer to satisfy him, but he also knew their relationship should not be one of physical attraction and flirtation, but of survival.

She did make it difficult for him to abstain from enticing her in to the tall grasses on the side of the road. Eomer dropped his eyes and peered shamelessly into her blouse. For days, he had been catching glimpses between the milky swells of her breasts which only made his own swelling worse. If he were a man of lesser inhibitions, he might consider giving one a lingering squeeze or gliding a finger over a nipple to feel it awaken under his encouraging touch.

_This isn't helping_, he thought with a sigh, his gaze still fixed hotly on her cleavage.

Much like the Mark, Ithilien was dotted with small settlements, and Eomer began to wonder how far it was until they reached the nearest village. Driven to the edge of his sanity and morals, he vowed once there he would find the nearest tavern and the most eager barmaid and plow her repeatedly until dawn.

A snort from Eothain caused Eomer to start out of his salacious musings on women.

Eothain was eyeing his friend with a look of debauchery that asked 'see anything you like down there?'

A grin of devilishness covered Eomer's face and he peeked over Loti's shoulder once more, overtly causal yet over exaggerated before he too sat back and snorted with laughter.

Loti glared at the two snickering men who were quite obviously having a good laugh at her expense. She ignored Eothain, but intentionally wiggled her hips over Eomer's hidden, enlarged manhood as retaliation. Instantly, Eomer became sober and flicked her pointedly in the ear. In her other ear he whispered, indecently, "Next time you do that, I'll assume you're volunteering to make it go away."

Ithillien was a magnificent and magical place.

As they rode slowly through the tree lined vales and bracken covered hills, Loti wondered if the woods resembled the Undying Lands; an paradise never fully appreciated by man yet full of hope, fresh new life and rebirth. Ancient and young trees of every imaginable kind lined the road south, and the horses were often distracted from their duties by the tiny, white wild flowers, tall seeding grasses and other various weeds, bushes, shrubs and heather that grew underneath. At night the rolling hills of the landscape were ethereally transcendent; awash in a bright, shimmering, slivery green radiance of moonlight and the heavy fragrance of blooms lingered in the cool dewiness into the early morning.

Wildlife was also abundant, roaming almost seemingly untouched by the years of war and destruction wrought on the hills and dells of the wood. The uncertain fleet footed rabbit or small rodent would dart erratically under hoof or wagon in a life or death attempt to reach the opposite side of the road. Eomer, always on the look out for snakes, would deftly maneuver Firefoot around them when he saw the stealthy reptiles lazily sunbathing and blocking his path. The large party of soldiers stirred up other woodland creatures including foxes, wolves, badgers, deer and sometimes a stag, which was a delightful change from the pitiful soldier's diet of hard tact and jerky.

One afternoon, Eomer returned from one of his aimless, solitary wanderings amongst the trees and ferns with a handful of small red berries and there was genuine excitement in the group as others also disappeared in search of the delicate fruit.

He approached Loti, who stood with Firefoot and several dozen pairs of eyes and fixed steadily on her like spear points.

"Ever have one of these?" he questioned leisurely, plucking the stem from the berry and holding it out for her perusal.

"No," she replied carefully, "How do I know it's not poisonous?"

"It's a strawberry. It's not poisonous," he countered, his tone economical and condescending.

Placing the knobblely, conical berry between his fingers, he implied she should open her mouth. Loti pressed her lips securely together, rolled them under and shook her head in refusal. Eomer, in a rare, dastardly and light hearted mood, motioned to press the berry against her lips and she dodged, looking away and swatting with her hands. Smiling, he went about this childish game, like a father trying to make his obstinate daughter eat her vegetables, hoping it would ease some of her stubbornness until; finally, he pinched her nose. When she opened her mouth to breathe, he then crammed the berry victoriously inside. Relenting, Loti chewed the succulent fruit, the taste of sweet and tart mingling pleasantly on her tongue and finding the new flavor wonderfully refreshing.

"Do you enjoy tormenting me?" she pestered in reference to his force feeding.

"As much as you enjoy tormenting me," Eomer replied lightly and turned to leave.

Loti called after him before he had gone too far asking, "Can I…can I have another?"

With narrow eyes, he grinned a crooked, sly smile, looking as wily as a fox. He returned, and taking her cupped hands in his, poured out the remaining berries for her to enjoy as she saw fit.

Summer weather was driving relentlessly into the northern reaches of the world. The days were noticeable longer and the suns rays became warmer and more intense. Haziness in the morning sky was an indication of the day's humidity and the hot gusty winds that blew from the ocean to the south offered little relief for the party of men pushing through South Ithillien.

Loti found it remarkable how quickly the weather changed. In the morning, they might wake to frost and the need for heavy outerwear and by late afternoon soaring temperatures required only the most basic of clothing. One day would be cloudy, cold, windy, and bitter while the next would be clear, hot, sweltering, and miserable.

Today though, Loti observed from her oven-like perch atop Firefoot, was defiantly the latter.

The armor the men of the Mark wore was heavy and uncomfortable in the heat, and the caravan's progress slowed slightly as both men and horses needed water and rest more frequently.

If the hearty horse lords of northern Middle earth had difficulty in this heat, how would they fair in the long, suffocating summers of South Gondor or Harad?

Riding with Eomer became its own special form of punishment as two bodies generated more heat than could be tolerated. Loti could tell Eomer was hot and disagreeable, although whether it was caused by the heat or his expanding arousal she was not sure. She tried not the fidget on his lap, but sometimes this was nearly impossible. He repeatedly threatened to use her for alleviation, but Loti took them for what they were worth; idle threats from a man in desperate need to pillage a woman between her legs.

Eomer sent scouts ahead on an errand to find water assessable to both the men and the horses. They returned a short while later, reporting a small lake lay in a clearing off the road several miles to the south.

Breaking through the foliage of the woods, the sandy beach and still waters of the lake were a wonderful sight for all. The soldiers of Rohan led their mounts to drink, filled canteens, and splashed themselves and others with the clean spring-fed water.

Loti, who sat with Eomer on the edge of the clearing watching everyone else partake in the thirst quenching fun, was herself becoming quite irritable.

"I want to get down," she said, struggling to lift her leg high enough to clear Firefoot's neck.

"Do you want help?" Eomer questioned, a bit annoyed and disinclined to help in any case.

"No," she snapped back stubbornly.

She was wedged tightly between her captor and the front of the saddle, and with out the leverage of stirrups or the proper use of both hands, Loti shifted back and forth in the saddle incessantly. The swelling in Eomer's pants throbbed brutally and he thought he might burst if she didn't leave his lap immediately.

"You need to get off. Now," he demanded.

Loti shifted to the left in the saddle as Eomer lifted her right leg over the horse's head unexpectedly and she slid lankily off the animal and fell to the hard packed earth with a crackling smack.

Stinging stabs of agony shot out, radiating from her pointy hip bone. She rolled across the ground a few times, her mouth open and panting as the stinger in her hip began to subside. Eomer looked on, unconcerned, as she fought to regain her footing. Loti was beginning to rage, boiling over like a steaming tea kettle. She could add broken hip to the long list of ailments acquired during her time with the Rohirrim.

Smoothing back the tendrils of her fallen bangs, her mouth twisted, "You purposely pushed me out, you horse's ass!"

Her voice rang out loudly through the clearing.

Eomer moved like lightning, swinging his leg over the neck of the great beast and landing in midstride. Loti let out a maniacal yelp, fearing the speed with which her northern Rohirric warden moved, and scuttled backward a few steps, before turning to run.

By now easily a hundred sets of eyes, both human and equine, were taking in the scene from the lakeshore, heads popping up like nosy gophers out of a hole.

The long legged Eomer was no match for Loti's determined run, and he caught her about the elbow, whizzing her around in an abrupt swirl of braids and black leather. Bending, he hoisted her over one shoulder as if he were barbarian who had just raided a village and found a suitable wife. Shrilling a cry that would make a peacock proud, she spewed more curses and kicked so much Eomer almost let her drop. She heard several teasing shouts from his men, calling for Eomer to paddle her rear end like a child, wash her mouth with soap, or generally suggesting other objectionable ways on how to make her act like a proper and submissive woman. Reaching Firefoot, he leveraged her off his shoulder and draped her willy nilly over the horse's behind.

"This is what a horse's ass looks like," he informed heartily, with a sharp swat on her rump.

Thinking he had made his point, she made an effort to slide down, but Eomer caught her by the seat of her pants.

"Let me down!"

"Not until you apologize."

"Never!" she drawled loudly, her voice vibrating with every kick of her legs while he still kept a firm grip on her backside.

There was more banter and waggish remarks from the lakeshore, some involving the strategic placement of his hand, and Eomer smiled in response, satisfied that her antics were at least entertaining.

When she was finished thrashing about like a fish out of water, he crouched in front of her and tipped her face to meet his. Her face was no longer swollen and the bruises had faded to a yellowish hue with only a few speckles of purple remaining. She was striking; a rare and unusual beauty. High cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, arched eyebrows, and pouty pink lips that dared to be kissed all set again skin with a golden blush. She reminded him of his sister's porcelain dolls; painstakingly handcrafted to perfection and an extravagant gift to receive. He was tempted to know if the rest of her body was as dangerously alluring as her face and the valley between her breasts.

The man who could tame this shrew would be lucky indeed.

"You are an insufferable wench," he concluded, emphasizing his words, "And you could do to learn some manners. Apologize now and I won't make you ride the rest of the way _over _the horse's ass."

"No!" she defied, rioting and fidgeting again.

He returned to hold her down, placing a large hand on Loti's firm posterior.

"Apologize!"

It was no use. Eomer was unyielding and she was hot, tired, thirsty, embarrassed, sore, and demoralized.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't hear you," Eomer claimed artificially.

"I said," Loti shouted, caterwauling for all to hear, "I'm sorry!"

Voices of joyous conquest pierced the clearing in brief celebration of their leader's small achievement over the incorrigible yet diminutive girl. Eomer patted her bottom again, taking great care to give it a good feel and a quick squeeze, lifted her into his arms and set her back on solid ground.

"Go wash up. You stink like a skunk's asshole," he noted with amusement.

On her way to the water's edge, she received several pats on the rump in mock appreciation for what she thought was her role in the in keeping up morale.

Soon enough though, after a quick dip in the chilly lake and a long drink pervaded with minerals, she was seated in front of Eomer again, his erection still poking her mercilessly in the back.

Mid afternoon of the next day, Eomer's prayers were answered. The Rohirrim had reached a rather substantial village for Ithillien. Approximately five hundred people or so, it had recently undergone a period of rapid growth and other than the main street and a few lanes, alleys and pathways, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the rest of the town. The hamlet wasn't much to look at, mostly wooden thatched roofed homes and only slightly more elaborate looking businesses, but what it lacked in amenities, population and city planning regulations it made up for in entertainment.

Tavern owners and innkeepers alike could see their coin purses ballooning as they sent their prettiest barmaids with plates of food and barrels of ale in an attempt to curry favor with group of young, male soldiers so far from home.

Hastily, a camp was erected on the outskirts of the village and each man given two days leave to with as he pleased.

Loti, tied tightly to a tree within sight of Eomer's tent, was quickly forgotten as the men were more focused on whoring and drinking than on a foul mouthed girl.

After dusk, she saw Eothain giving his friend, Eomer, an excited shake in the light from the flickering torches and they disappeared from the camp together; following in the path of many of their companions.

Loti awoke from a light sleep several hours later to the sound of giggling. She saw Eomer strolling towards his quarters accompanied by two young, tall, voluptuous women with an arm around each of their shoulders. He whispered something in one girl's ear as he swept curls of dark hair off her shoulder and his fingers slinked under the fabric of her low cut dress. The young barmaid, Loti noted, snuggled closer against Eomer, and his hand dipped lower into her cleavage. She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder clearly enjoying the feel of his hand on her breast. The other girl giggled, watching the Horse Lord softly fondle her friend's chest.

Eomer's face beamed as if he were a lighthouse beckoning women instead of fishermen to the safety of his shores, and even from a distance Loti could tell he was pissed drunk.

Extracting his hand from the bosom of the first girl, Eomer opened the flap of the tent and she disappeared inside without hesitation. The giggling girl, also a barmaid, he held back. They rapidly engaged in hot kisses while he drew down the dress over her shoulders. His lips swiftly moved to earlobe, neck and along her shoulder while his hands groped busily; one at her breast and the other on her backside, pressing her hips into his. Then they broke apart as quickly as they came together and he led her inside.

Loti watched the whole scene with confusion.

_Two girls? At one time?_ She thought puzzled, _How does…? Who…?_

She finally surmised there were some things about men, women, and sex she would never understand.

The following morning she woke to the same girlish giggling. Raising her head she saw the girls exiting the tent followed closely by Eomer, whose height made it necessary to duck his head every time he came and went through the opening. He slipped an arm around each of their waists and drew them close, kissing each slowly on the mouth in thanks for a night well spent. The girls' hands roamed spiritedly over his bare chest, back, and linen clad buttocks, and for a moment Loti thought he might lead them back inside to…well, to do whatever two girls and one man did together in bed.

Her mind lingered on this image of Eomer lying in naked euphoria after delighting in the pleasures of the flesh with unknown women and immediately something tugged at her from the inside. Loti knew that feeling and was instantly scorched with venomous hostility. She felt that same emotion when thinking of another woman being loved by Theodred; the image of her tongue touching his, his mouth at her breast, her legs encircling his hips…

The feeling was jealousy.

_Why would I be jealous of those girls_, she demanded of herself, _just because he looks like his cousin doesn't mean his is his cousin!_

It was true; she and Eomer had a peculiar and atypically intimate relationship for a captor and a captive. And it was also true that she found his physicality difficult to resist, and her heart beat faster when she found his eyes lingering on her, but she had no claim to him nor did she want one.

Finally, Eomer was able to disentangle himself from their appreciative embraces and shooed them away towards the village. Shaking her head, she watched as the two busty girls about her own age took their leave, chirping like finches. She looked back to find Eomer staring directly at her with a look of well executed self gratification plastered all over his impious face. He winked, and smirked suggestively seeing her eyes drop to his naked chest and Loti's face burned bright pink with embarrassment for wondering again what mysteries lay at the end of that trail of wiry golden hairs.

No one came to check on her welfare at all that day or to offer her food and drink. The men of Rohan were too busy reliving a night of bedding wenches or, like their leader, content to waste the day away in their tents sleeping and nursing unholy hangovers.

Time and boredom were all Loti had on her hands and her thoughts about Eomer, her time as his hostage, and her short but dangerous life turned bitter and angry. She began to brood over the tumult of emotions surfacing from the place in her heart were she had stuffed them; her mind turning over and over in despair like the sea in a storm. It dragged her down. Down under the water as though she were a swimmer caught in the current of a rip tide, funneling her hopelessly away from the safety of the shore towards the vast unknown of the open ocean. Carrying her away from any dreams of life she might yet realize and sweeping her to an impending doom.

_You are a fool, Loti_, she thought, critically demonizing herself, Y_ou are a fool to think he will not hurt you. He cannot be trusted. Somehow, somewhere, sometime he will hurt you. He will cause you suffering, just like every man you have ever known. Look how he humiliated you yesterday, treating you like a child, as a joke. And that's all you are to him. He doesn't take you seriously. You're a toy, a play thing._

She swung her braids around with a wild turn of her head, and tore unforgivingly with bound hands and arms at the leather thongs that held her hair back, feeling the well of tears flooding her eyes.

Bitterness and anger turned to paranoia.

'He'_s lulling you into a false sense of security! He will keep you in bondage! He has not ever denied it!_

Hoping her loose hair would conceal her face, Loti drew her knees close, and pressed her forehead against them, letting the tears fall veraciously.

_Why did you hesitate, you stupid girl? Why couldn't you kill him? Because he reminds you of Theodred? Because he is handsome? Because you think he will love you?_

Loti sobbed as silently as she could, her tears causing wet spots on the knees of her dirty pants, feeling pathetic and utterly alone.

_How can you still have feelings for a man you slept with for a week two years ago? You long for a dead man! He cannot give you what you seek! He will not love you from the grave! You are alone!_

She quietly repeated the words Fat Fingers whispered as he greedily ravaged her long into the night, "No man will ever want you. No man will ever love you."

She cried, in unrelenting frustration and realization, knowing the violent man who corrupted her mind, body and soul was right.

All the words in her book, all the dreams those words gave birth to now seemed so far out of reach.

What did it matter if she died now? All those she had loved, all those who had loved her were dead. She wished to be free of the blood and the death, the hate and the anger, the hopelessness and the loss, the fear and the doubt that everyday brought. She wished to see her mother and brother again, to be loved by them.

As a girl doing the shopping at the bazaar, Loti would stop at the small stall of a kindly gentleman who kept a small yellow canary in a cage. She found the tiny creature fascinating as it hopped on its perch and twittered when she put her fingers through the bars to touch it. But she wondered if it ever longed to be free; to fly away and see new places, to sing its songs when and where it chose.

Loti felt like that bird; trapped, caged and wanting to sing her own songs, pecking at the clasp that held the door shut. But like the bird, when the door opened, when the opportunity came to fly away, she found she had lost all of her power and the ability to control her own life. She was paralyzed by the fear.

_I don't want to be afraid anymore_, she thought as her tears eased and the welcoming promise of sleep exhausted and eased her weary mind.

_I don't want to be afraid._

She woke after dark calm and resigned to her fate.

The camp was eerily quiet, and shortly thereafter, she saw Eomer and Eothain dressed in their battle gear jovially headed back to the village. They were not gone long and both returned early and, unlike the previous evening, unlubricated by drink.

In their absence, Loti wondered what her mother would say about her indecision, and was reminded of something the elegant yet shabby woman had said.

They were in the bazaar one day when she was twelve rummaging through bins and racks of scarves while a bored, rambunctious, and hyper active Castamir tugged at her mother's skirts.

"Loti, just pick one and let's go!"

Loti held three fringed brightly colored gauzy cotton scarves in her hands.

"They're all so nice," she muttered, draping each over her head for the tenth time, "I don't want to make the wrong decision!"

"Oh! For Valor's sake, Loti," her mother exclaimed anxiously, detaching Castamir's prying fingers from her skirt and barging around the table, "Sometimes, you're exactly like your father. You're so worried about making the wrong decision you can't see how to make the right one."

Her mother took a boldly colored scarf of red, green, royal, purple, gold and orange woven in a brilliant dancing pattern and covered her daughter's head.

"This one goes perfectly with your hair and coloring."

Loti had taken that scarf with her the day the men led her from home.

And suddenly, she knew why it did not matter if she lived or died. It did not matter because she had died that day at thirteen when she was led from home.

Her dreams, her hopes were just that, dreams; unrealistic thoughts that kept her awake during the sweltering nights in her cloistered room near the sea in Umbar or in the cool damp evenings here in Ithillien.

Straightening herself decidedly, she wiped away any left over tears, knowing now what she had to do.

She was bitter, afraid, angry, and distrustful, but also, tough, determined, persistent, and cunning.

She would bring an end to everything.

She would do what she should have done in the first place.

The first person she saw a young man, not much older than eighteen or nineteen.

"Hey!" Loti called, "Hey!"

The boy looked around, unsure if she was calling to him or some one else. Finding no one nearby, he approached and replied, "Yessum."

Loti took this word to be another slurred slang term or colloquialism that were commonly used and difficult to understand when combined with the sing song rhythmic speech pattern of the Rohirric tongue.

The boy, tall and gangly with strawberry blonde hair and a valiant yet feeble attempt at a beard stood several paces away looking ill at ease, as though she might rip through her bonds and strangle him to death if he came to close.

"I want to see him," she ordered the youth and gestured in the direction of Eomer's quarters, "I want to see him now."

He left, entered his Lord's tent, and returned sooner than expected to free her from the tree and escort her back to Eomer's temporary housing.

The boy held open the flap, and they entered together.

There was one small brazier burning inside, the low flames licking and dancing along the canvas interior while giving off a surprising amount of light. The smoke was drawn up through an opening in the roof of the tent but the thick woodsy sweetness of cedar that burned in tandem with the hot coals hung pervasively in the air. There was very little in the way of furnishings or decorations, except for a large but simple wooden desk, a bigger than average camp bed and a few chairs; items that were as uncomplicated and unpretentious as the King.

The man she was after sat behind the desk, his feet propped up on it at an angle, rocking back on the legs of his chair; the supremacy of his countenance not lessened by his posture. He was reading sheets of roughly made paper that he placed face down with a stack of others in a leather bound folder when Loti and the boy entered.

Eomer wore no leather armor, as he had when he left to visit the village with Eothain, but still donned his chain mail shirt. Armored or not, it mattered little to Loti who knew Eomer always carried a weapon; a knife usually secured neatly against the small of his back.

Loti held out her arms, gesturing presumptuously for the rope around her wrists to be cut. Pausing for a moment in thought, Eomer took his feet off the desk and swept a shrewd finger upwards indicating the young solider to do as she bid, and then sent him away with a wave of his hand.

Admittedly, he was a bit curious to see what she wanted. It felt odd she would suddenly feel the need to talk, and this method of placating her could be dangerous, deadly even.

"You wanted something?" he asked, filling the silence between them that only the crackling of the brazier interrupted.

Her hair was loose, draping over her shoulders and chest in sinuous, crinkled waves of shining fire lit cinnamon and chestnut.

Loti started towards him, every step and every movement meant to be deliberate, well planned and agonizingly sensual.

She eased the leather coat over her shoulders, shrugging it down, and letting it slide off her arms to the ground.

With a toss of her head, she flipped the cascading locks behind her so he would have a better view of her fingers as they slipped ebony buttons through buttonholes.

"You have something I want," she purred deep and smooth, alluding to her stolen book, "And I think I have something you want…"

Her voice trailed off as her fingers moved lower, button by button on her black linen blouse.

If there was one skill she learned very quickly and very well, it was how to seduce a man, and men of power, influence, and ego, like Eomer, were almost incapable of resisting the urges to bed a provocative woman, especially one who made her intention clear.

Eomer leaned back in the camp chair, speculatively; intertwining his finger behind his head and closely observing the scene as it played out.

She was defiantly up to something, but what, he didn't yet know.

His eyes focused on her body as her fingers slowly opened the shirt to reveal more warm golden skin and the rising and falling of tender breasts.

He found her body captivating. She was unlike the kind of women he usually preferred; tall, buxom, and soft. This stripping she wolf was short, pert, and lanky, but change wasn't always bad and willingness was more important than body shape.

Contemplating what he should do in this situation, and not quite sure why he should bother, he asked dryly, eyes still fixed tightly on her chest, "Where was this two days ago?"

Her shoulders lifted noncommittally, and another button slid from its confining hole to expose the soft hollow of skin between her breasts.

Replying truthfully, Loti answered, "You never asked."

Sick of talk, Eomer focused on his prisoner divesting of her clothing and the pounding in his temples, loins, and chest.

The clothing she did wear, he noticed, was high quality, expensive and tailored specifically to her body. Her black wool pants sat low on her hips causing her backside to appear fuller while closely hugging the rounded, sloping lines of her hips and thighs. The shirt she was so skillfully and scandalously removing was profoundly feminine for such a rough, offensive harpy. Long sleeved with a straight collar that curved the back of her neck the lapels in the front folded over, forming the low cut v-shaped opening he had been peeking into for a week. A fitted empire waist and princess seams emphasized the upper half of her hourglass figure, and tiny pleats and darts in the bust line eliminated the need for her to wear any confining undergarments to enhance her billowy chest.

The points of her breasts became visible in the firelight, penetrating tall and sharp as they moved against the clingy linen.

His practical mind barged in rudely on his leering, wondering how she acquired such luxuries without money and why a sacrificial lamb would be lavished with such extravagant gifts.

But Eomer didn't dwell on these questions for long…

She stood at his knees, her shirt open to the waist, unveiling the smooth interior mounds of her chest. A small hand traced the line between the mounds, and he watched with voyeuristic fascination as she slipped her hand inside the blouse, languidly cupping and groping her own breasts while pinching and tugging on aroused nipples; actions meant purely for his enjoyment.

He was beginning to feel the uncomfortable urges of a man on the edge of control. Very few women offered themselves so boldly, and he closed his eyes, tantalized by anticipation as she touched his knee and smoothed a hand up his leg, massaging the muscles of the inner thigh. His blue eyes opened leisurely to meet her come-hither gaze as she bent over him, before dropping to stare inside the loosely open shirt.

Her eyes made him weak.

Her touch caused his heart to pound and his breathing to quicken; revitalizing his tired body and increasing his excitement.

Her teasing made him ache wickedly with the craving to bury his cock deep between those tight inner thighs that didn't touch.

A hidden smile emerged and pulled at the corner of his mouth. A smile that invited her to continue and confirmed he wanted more.

Loti's hand parted Eomer's legs, and she stepped between them, settling down on his lap in a flourish. A tight grip and a sold shift pulled her closer, securing her to his body with both legs draped over his. An arm around her waist and a calloused palm on her hip kept the King's new kittenish hell cat at his mercy. She moved a hand up the chain mail of his chest, brushed the backs of her finely made fingers over the delicate skin of his throat, and lightly traced the pale swirl of his ear sending a rippling surge down his back. Encircling his neck and shoulders, Eomer felt the moist, warm, tickling breath from her mouth near the sensitive skin of his neck beneath his ear. She touched him there, first with her lips, then with a flick of her cool, wet tongue. He burned red hot to the touch while the tempermental vixen licked, nibbled, nuzzled, and kissed, and he took the liberty to begin exploring her body, gliding his hand from her hip to knee. Anxiety was building in his chest as she skimmed the shallow hollows of his neck and throat with kisses, tiny bites, and swirls of her slippery tongue.; a slick tongue he wished to feel on other more sensitve parts of his body.

Lips nipping his fleshy earlobe, she whispered with a voice accentuated by sin, "Tell me what you like. Tell me how you want me."

Eomer's hand brushed along her shoulder, then cupped the back of her neck, and drew her away from the place where she nibbled so vigorously. He bent his head, touching her forehead to his own, caressing and entangling his fingers in her silky hair. Her full, pink lips so incredible close.

So close to kiss…

So close to taste…

His sky blue eyes locked on to hers in a gaze that revealed a want that words could not express.

_She's up to something_, he thought cynically.

But right now he didn't care.


	6. Chapter 6 What Lies Between Them

Hello and thanks again to every one who has read this! I think there were over 1100 visitors to this story in last month alone! OMG people! I am shocked and flattered! I really hope you are enjoying this.

This chapter is a little long but i think the best one so far. It better be cause i rewrote it three different times! lol! This is probably not the best love scene but then it really isn't love between them right now is it...

Comments, questions, or wisecracks are always appreciated. If you reveiw I will send you a note back. I hope to have the next chapter up by the end of the month!

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Loti didn't know what to expect when she sat on his lap.

He was a king after all, a man of power; perhaps he liked it rough, or even violent. She could handle that, and, as she swept two dubious sapphire eyes over him, she would have to she supposed as an after thought, now that she was nicely settled in his formidable, steel thewed arms. She was small, and it wouldn't be the first time a larger man was intent on causing her pain rather than pleasure. And to say that he was a large man was like saying a mountain was tall. Eomer, King of Rohan was enormous and his size, even after many days of riding so near to him, was still daunting. On an extremely tall day the top of her head could fit under the crook of his shoulder, and his wingspan was easily as long as she. His hands were so big he probably could wrap one around her neck and be able to touch his fingertips, the broad expanse of his chest and back were solid as the dungeon walls of her room in Umbar, and he likely outweighed her by two hundred pounds. But what she did not expect from man of his size were kisses, soft and sweet like warm honey.

Eomer was not timid and kissed her urgently, parting her lips and frantically seeking the tip of her tongue. Tasting, teasing, exploring, and learning the sensations of an unfamiliar partner to see what the other liked. As a man used to being in control, Loti relented her usual seductive aggressiveness, letting him set the pace. The hand on the back of her neck gripped tighter, pressing his mouth harder as he consumed her with lips and tongue and marauding hands. Waves of goose bumps shivered over her body as he kissed down the length of her finely drawn neck, the course hairs of his unshaven face tingling her fine skin like a cool, sprinkling evening mist.

Loti raised his head from the spot he so desperately sought; his want becoming to powerful, his urges needing to be corralled, or all too soon she would be a victim of his eagerness.

He met her eyes, and his crystal blue pools shown dark, heavy and unrepentant in the firelight.

She didn't know exactly what caused the icy, iron like fist of resentment and hate around her heart to crack and loosen. Perhaps it was lightly caressing his flaxen hair and tough, sun darkened skin on the back of his neck or the feathery touch of his fingertips that trailed along her throat to the delicate wing of her collarbone and ever so slowly down her chest. Or maybe it was the way he held her in his arms in the isolation of his tent, protective and secure, claiming her as his own much in the same way his cousin had done.

But what she did know was what she saw reflected in the inky blue depths of his eyes; a greed to take her hard and fast until she collapsed beneath him, writhing and shaking, delirious from exhaustion. Greed she had seen many times in the eyes of the men she had she had let take her to bed.

She was vulnerable; so small and helpless in his strong arms, so near a man who could have anything he wanted. And, he so near a woman who wanted to give it to him.

With that knowledge, she grabbed a hand full of his chain mail shirt, drew him close, brought her mouth to his, and kissed him. And she kissed him again, and again, and again; sliding her tongue over his, warm and wet, tasting the saltiness of sweat, the grittiness of road dust and the oaky hint of whiskey still lingering on his lips while he smelled of leather and steel and raging testosterone.

In one quick motion, Eomer ripped the confining chain mail shirt over his head and tossed it with little consideration onto the floor in a slithering pile.

Gasping, Loti found his mouth covering hers again and his unforgiving tongue pushing deeper. Inch by inch he groped, his calloused hands tracing up the curve of her waist, digging into the soft skin under her shirt. She felt the stinging thrill of her nipples

tightening from a mixture of excitement and the nighttime chill. Then there was the feeling of his rough palm, like unsanded wood, grazing deliberately inside her open blouse and along the creamy, vermillion flush of her ripe breast and over the peak of her erect nipple.

She brushed a seeking a hand down his chest and belly until she found him hard and bulging, confined by his own garments. Like a caged animal, tension was building in his shoulders and back, and, as she smoothed a hand over him, she knew that pent up anxiety would not be released until he had been satisfied either by her hand, her mouth, of the soft warmth between her legs.

She began to release him, slowly undoing the buttons and lacing of his wool britches. Impatiently, Eomer lifted his hand from her breast and nudged her fingers away. She was too slow, all too happy to tease him rather than touch. Roughly, he pulled himself free and grabbed her wrist. He placed her hand on his shaft, greedily wrapping her slender fingers around his girth, and moved their hands together, carefully instructing her on how he liked to be stroked. He grew still thicker and stiffer, and Loti made an almost imperceptible sound when he reached his full hardness from their mutual rubbing, remembering the many reasons they were called Horse Lords.

"You like that," he whispered, his heavy breath brushing over the curve of her ear.

Any lingering questions he may have had about her virtue flew out the window the minute she sat on his lap. If a trade was really all she wanted then he may as well enjoy himself, if not…he would worry about that later.

"Hmmm…" she sighed in half mechanical response, half restrained pleasure, as Eomer left her to stoke him unaided, from hilt to head.

His hand found her breast again, pinching and enticing the hard tip with his fingers, until it ached for the tenderness of his mouth. She stopped breathing while his kisses moved ever lower along her neck and chest to the swell of her breast. A shuddering bolt of nervousness coursed through her, ripples of numbness flaring from heart to fingertips and toes, leaving her warm and incredibly sensitive to the delicate pleasures he offered. This time she would not stop him from seeking what he so plainly desired to do. Her heartbeats rushed and fluttered in her chest and all other thoughts seemed to quietly and mysteriously slip into nothingness. Loti could only watch, fearing a misunderstood desire and continue massaging him with long strokes as he directed.

Eomer cupped her upturned breast, his tongue trailing in moist licks down the mound, and his lips kissing the edge her small, ridged nipple. She arched her back, feeling heavy with expectation, his arm drawing her closer into an inescapable embrace. He took the darkly colored nipple into his mouth, his wet tongue flicking and swirling in tiny circles, squeezing and sucking. Loti whispered an unexpected moan as he bit the nipple lightly between his teeth, and she rested her head against his rounded shoulder, lacing her fingers through the sandy colored hair of his neck, content to let him do as he pleased.

"Oh…" she murmured as he sampled her, nibbling deliciously.

Then he tended to her to her other breast, pinching, licking, sucking; always leaving the nipple wet so it would remain hard as the cool air surrounded it. He nuzzled into her neck, brushing the long, wispy, strands of burnished amber and chocolate brown off her shoulder, again leaving kisses while his hands fondled her fullness.

Lines loomed before her now; lines that crossed between love and hate, desire and disgust, vengeance and forgiveness, mingling and merging and then becoming clear and unmistakable. Boundaries that once crossed, she could never return back over again.

Eomer stirred something deep inside her, something basic and primal, something both her heart and soul wanted, something new she had never known before. There was nothing she wanted more than to take him to bed. To feel his weight above her, to wrap her legs and arms around him, to press her hips into his and meet his thrusts in absolute and reckless carnality that would remind her of cool nights spent in a hot bed with his cousin. But she resented him, hated him for who he was, what he had done and how he had treated her, her brother and her people.

Loti sighed soundlessly, aching with the fear of longing to be touched as Eomer swept a hand fervently along her inner thigh, pulling her legs apart, searching for her hidden warmth. He wanted her to call his name, cling to him, and confess her satisfaction with thunderous, quivering sobs caused by his caressing fingertips. He was making her shake, pant, flush, and nearly on the edge of out of control; each seeking to find pleasure from the arousing touches of the other. Soon he would take her to his bed, undress her, and defenseless, she would submit to his eagerness. They would lay together, his nakedness united with her own and she would guide him so he could find his pleasure inside her body. Screaming in pain and ecstasy, she would beg him not ever to stop. He would use her for his own release and never stop defiling her. She would belong to him… until he found another who enticed him more, and cast her aside, broken and unrepairable, like an old piece of crockery.

Her mind whirled in a haze and she began feeling dizzy; light headed from a smothering mix of apprehension, shame, and a longing for the love she wanted so desperately to know but knew was never possible. The longing to feel what pleasure could be found with a man. If only just once…

She seized his mouth with hers, pressing unhesitatingly, forcing his lips apart, pushing her tongue into his mouth, trying to stop the words from coming out. She must stop those words, she must not say them, she must not ask for what those words might bring. Those words she had never said to any man.

_I want you… I am yours. If you would have me, take me now._

But she knew it could never be.

She didn't want to feel love only to lose it again, ripped out of her hands and heart by the roaring inferno of hate or by the frigid fingers of death.

She was not made for love. She was made for suffering.

_If he keeps going, he will kill more brothers and sons,_ she reminded herself in a fresh moment of clarity.

Another attempt on Eomer's life meant it was unlikely she would survive, but if she could spare just one sister, one mother, one family from the agony she knew, the agony of burden and guilt and inconsolable emptiness, the agony Eomer would cause them, then her death, and his, would be worth while.

_I'm a killer. I can't just walk away…_

She wouldn't love again; not with him.

_Oh, Valor, please,_ she begged in silent prayer, _not with him._

Loti moved to wrap an arm around his waist, slowly smoothing her hand along the center of his back, feeling his skin slightly damp with perspiration, and the thick columns of muscle surrounding his spine until she touched it…

Eomer chuckled. His body shook with the short, quick laugh, and amid kisses and heavy breaths he asked, "Is that all you want? Your book?"

"Yes," she replied with the confidently soothing voice of a black widow spider luring a fly into her web.

Suddenly, she was pushed away, a hand clamped around her willowy throat, breaking their heated kissing.

"Then you'd better move that hand."

His eyes were stern and offered no room for negotiation or innocently feigned excuses. He knew what she meant to do.

Loti caught his mouth again, relentlessly sucking his slick tongue between her lips, red and swollen from his kisses. They clawed furiously at each other, ruthless and bitter, grabbing, growling, grinding, each demanding the unconditional surrender of the other. Her hand gripped him loosely but moved over his length with renewed urgency. He grunted and trembled under the handling of her hot hand and she relished feeling such a strong and powerful man subdued and fully hardened by her expert groping. She hadn't considered that Eomer might be a man roused by danger...

With the King's body and passions under her control, Loti was again tempted by the knife sheathed against the small of his back. Eomer felt her scheming fingertips walking with sneaky fearlessness down his backbone. Viciously, he trapped her arm under his, pressing it in a tenacious hold against his side. Then he slipped a hand inside her shirt, fondled her breast once more, pinched a dainty nipple with his thumb and index finger, and savagely twisted like he was tearing a stem from a strawberry. Loti shrieked, cursing in a language Eomer didn't understand, shocked and pierced with a stinging pain. She jumped back, trying to pry his vice like fingers off her assaulted nipple, but he only smirked like a schoolboy caught looking up a girl's skirts and pinched again. Wrenching a hand back to slap in across the face in an attempt to regain her injured pride caused him to release his grip on her nipple, but only to catch her wrist inches before landing the blow. He forced her hand back to his shaft, grabbed the back of her neck, smothered her with his mouth, and thrust a groping hand back in her shirt.

They each strained against the will of the other for a moment, panting and moaning, consenting and refusing with kisses and tugging and pushing, not wanting to give in or knowing how to pull away from their wild embrace, until-

"Aaah!" Eomer shouted, reclaiming his bitten lower lip from her teeth and tasting the foul flavor of blood, "What the -?"

The solid beat of armored footsteps and the throwing open of canvas turned the deviant couple's attention to the tent entrance as first the strawberry blonde boy and then ever diligent Eothain burst inside with looks of concern covering their faces.

"Everything alright in…" Eothain's voice broke off abruptly.

The cocked eyebrow Eothain wore clearly showed, he found the present situation interesting, if nothing else.

Loti wondered what they must look like clutched together, flushed, and scratched while he clamped down on her arm, and his hand seemed intent on eloping with her breast, completely forgetting that she clung precariously to his manhood as though she were scaling him like a mountain.

The boy appeared stunned by what he saw, his color changing from pale white to cherry red, while his gaping mouth and popping eyes gave him the appearance of a large mouth bass. Eothain's calm demeanor, though, indicated the he saw this sort of activity rather frequently.

Surveying the current state of affairs and taking control very quickly, Eothain placed a hand over the boy's eyes, blinding him to the cold hard facts of Eomer's love life. An insolent smile, reminiscent of what the boy should be doing, curved and brightened the features on the kind man's face.

"Are we interrupting something?" He asked trying to appear serious, while obviously choking down several crude and insensitive jokes.

Spinning the boy around by the shoulders, Eothain ushered him out the doorway, clearing his throat with a formal sounding, "Wait outside, son. I'll take care of this."

Eomer's expression was cold, the frosty black depths of his pupils empty and as smooth as glass but still dilated in arousal, and jaw set grindingly tight; so frighteningly different from only a few moments before.

Eomer flung Loti off his lap and she stumbled back into Eothain, clutching at her shirt.

"Go let her cool off."

Bouncing off the Rohirric warrior, she was temporarily freed, and lunged back at Eomer, claws bared and ready to rip him to shreds. Eothain snatched her around the waist, doubling her over, squirming and struggling, until he lifted her into the air almost bending her backwards over his shoulder.

"Time for bed, lass," he insisted, lugging her with little effort out the way he came, "Not his, yours!"

Eomer sat back, listening to the stings and barbs from her waspish tongue. Lowering his head he shoved a hand through his hair; damp near the scalp with the light sweat of excitement, more angry at him self than at the girl. Women, especially beautiful ones, were had always been his weakness. He didn't hate, fear, or resent women like some men, but was reminded why he kept them at arms length.

He placed a hand on himself, still hard, trying to quell the feeling of her hand caressing him long and smooth and so close to the end…

Holy fucking host! What did she just do to him? If a man had both a head and a cock, which one was he using now? Groaning, he began to feel the uncomfortable sensation of incompletion.

His stones weren't the only thing beginning to hurt. Damn it, his pride was hurt much worse and he'd likely be the butt of Eothain's jokes for weeks after this fiasco.

Making himself decent, he slid the chain mail shirt on, popping his head out as his right hand man reentered the tent.

Crossing his arms Eothain said humorously, "I've never seen an interrogation done like that!"

Eomer glowered back, snatching up his chest plate from the corner, "Where is she?"

"Where do you think she is?"

"It's not what it looked like," he insisted defensively, knowing full well it didn't matter what Eothian thought it looked like, he was still going to catch hell.

"Oh, right," Eothain replied solemnly, shaking his head, making a face and sucking his breath in with mocked sympathy, "Rejection, huh. It never gets any easier, does it?"

"Reject- What?" Eomer started in an unamused stammer, "Skinny bitch is smart… and a cock tease! She was going for my knife," then asked incredulously, "What makes you think I was the one who got rejected?"

Exasperated, he continued cinching the leather buckles of both chest plate and then gauntlets, "I've never been rejected."

"Never seen you kick a pretty girl outta bed before either, no matter what the reason."

"We weren't in bed yet," Eomer reminded dryly, and motioned with a sweeping finger to his fully clothed body.

"Couldn't handle a little thing like her? Ha! You're gettin' old," Eothain shrugged then, and gave a quick, smart alecky snort, "Guess you'da died a happy man, though! Now what're we doing?"

He watched as Eomer busied himself with strapping his sword around his waist.

"We're not doing anything," he answered, giving his friend an affable backhand to the chest, "You're coming with me to get drunk, and I'm getting laid. C'mon, Cuckold."

Eomer's regained high spirits were tamped down a few notches when, leaving the privacy of his quarters, he saw the girl staring at him, ruffling her long mane, proud and remorseless as a lioness after taking down a gazelle. Striding away from Eothain, who was wondering aloud which local establishment would have the strongest ale, best whiskey, and loosest women, he stopped just in front of the girl. Her shirt was still open; baring peeking glimpses of the perky breasts he had been cupping and nibbling not long before.

He touched a finger tentatively to the inside of his lip, checking to see if it was still bleeding. The knife, with a long, slightly curving blade and an antler bone handle, gave a low hiss as it was unsheathed.

"This what your looking for?" He questioned, holding the knife out gingerly by the blade for her inspection.

Eomer continued in earnest, his voice steady and precise, "Girl, don't push me any more. This was your last chance. The next time will be the hard way, no more easy way. Do you understand me?"

Loti watched him cautiously from her spot on the ground tied again against the base of the tree.

When in defiance she offered no response, Eomer taunted, "What? No snide little comment?"

Pursing her lips together haughtily, she wiggled her head around to get a better view of him from her low vantage point.

"I'm disappointed," she pricked, "I expected it to be bigger. It's rather small for a man of your size, isn't it? And I'm not talking about the knife."

Eomer looked either under a considerable amount of self control or entirely bored with this exchange. Pausing for a moment, he briefly remembered the feel of her in her in his hands and on his lap, and the ache of embarrassment and want of her body returned. But he could have none of that, he reminded himself as his own body reacted in response to his thoughts of her sleek form arching under his or she might try flaying him like a fish for Friday night supper again.

Gesturing with the business end of the knife, he let out a muffled chuckle and answered with his usual casual flippancy, "You're ass is too big and your tits are too small."

He thought her head might just pop off then, like a boy snapping off the spiky yellow flowered head of a dandelion with his thumb. Even in the dim light of moon, stars and dying fire, he could see the blood in her face, looking almost black, and thought her mouth opened and closed in the same way a cow chews its cud. Any woman as beautiful as she was would know the full extent of her assets and by her reaction it was likely that she did. Insulting her beauty and femininity, as she did his manhood, was far worse for her than any threat of physical punishment and her pride and confidence would be hurt more than his own balls. At least that pain could be alleviated and, Bema willing, hopefully tonight multiple times.

Eomer retreated backwards sneering in his mirth, as she fumed and stammered to regain both her words and composure. Finally she cried,

"There's nothing wrong with my tits!

Eomer had not returned to the camp last night, Loti noted. He must have spent the night in the bed and between the legs of some sleazy, unshaven harlot. She didn't know why she cared, she could have had him; he was more than ready that was plain enough. Recalling the erotically suggestive murmurings in her ear of what he wanted to do with her, she quickly tried to banish them to the furthest, black recesses of her mind.

He returned mid morning just in time to help finish breaking camp looking tired but well satisfied and vigorously renewed. When the party was ready to continue the procession, Eomer jerked Loti to her feet and boosted her into the saddle in the most unlady like fashion possible. She thought she might wither and die from embarrassment. Word had traveled quickly through the ranks about the King's rendezvous with the fiery southern vixen and, although Eomer bore the brunt of the cajoling, she could feel the slow creep of heat up her neck and cheeks.

Eomer shifted and shimmied behind her before settling into a comfortable position. The day was going to be hot and muggy, but there was a light, cool northern breeze this morning stirring the trees and making tiny swirling dirt devils along the parched ground.

Eomer sniffed several times, turning his head to locate the stench pervading his senses.

"Ghaw!" He said gruffly, uttering what Loti still couldn't distinguish as a colloquialism or a Rohirric noise, "What's that stink?"

He sniffed again and pressed an investigative nose against the top of her head, and pulled back with repulsion and a grimace.

"Ugh! You smell like a pig barn in summer!"

Loti inclined her head in response, lightly sniffing in his general direction. She caught the pungent scent of stale smoke and male sweat mixed with the delicate aroma of sweet, flowery perfume.

"You smell like a whorehouse," she retorted, and couldn't resist the opportunity to rub salt in a wound that was clearly still festering, "Too bad, you should have let me know before…We could have taken a bath together instead. It's less messy that way…"

"I'm sure you would have liked that," he answered ruefully.

"No," she answered dryly and with a hint of distain, then after a pause, tipped her head back so the top of it rested against his chest and looked up into his face.

A coy smile drawing across her mouth, she continued, "But you would have."

Lowering her head she poked more sharp sticks into an already battered ego, and asked conversationally, "How many were there this time? One? Two? Any livestock involved other than the women you were with?"

Eomer swept an arm of imperial possession around her waist, and pressed his chest into her back. Holding her close, he brushed the hair off her shoulder, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin of her collarbone, and whispered huskily, "Sounds like your jealous."

Loti rubbed back against his chest and turned her head slightly so she could see him from the corner of her eye. Peering at him, she was able to smell the sweet muskiness of the other woman in his rough beard. And his lips, so close to her own, probably still tasted like the feted trollop too.

"Oh," she pouted disappointedly, "I'm sure it would have been the best three thrusts of my entire life."

His large, warm hand ran up the inside of her leg, and tightly grabbed the upper crease of her thigh. Loti felt the soft flesh of his lips moving over the tender curve of her ear, muttering a very low, "Mmm."

"I guess you'll never know."

Loti let out a ridiculing laugh as almost a dare, "I know you'll never force me. If you were going to, you would have done it by now."

"That's because I prefer my women to beg for more rather than beg to stop."

Eomer, in high spirits after two consecutive nights of tawdry and cheap female companionship, then blew lightly on her ear. Throwing up her rope tied hands, Loti swatted wildly at her ear trying to eliminate the tickling of his breath and the invitation of his unspoken words, as if a rogue pack of mosquitoes buzzed nearby.

They rode without speaking, as was their custom. The pace had quickened slightly, and Loti wondered if this was because they needed to make up for lost time after two days of hedonistic idleness.

Eomer's hand did not move from the inside of her thigh. His left hand, his reign hand, rested comfortably on her upper leg, while his right hand, usually placed around her waist of or near his own hip, found its way to the inside of her thigh on many occasions that day. A very strange feeling of sensuality swept over her as they sat curved to the other's body, with her legs spread and the awareness of his hands keeping her open, and exposed. It was more likely he was acting as a dog, she surmised solicitously; marking his territory, and trying to keep yet another member of his pack in line.

_Well,_ she speculated a little while later_, what to do now?_

She had underestimated Eomer, a dangerous and amateurish mistake. He was smart, quick, and thought with his head instead of his cock. For the most part that was… Sitting up straight she felt for any unusual protrusions against her back. Nothing…yet.

There was no chance of getting close enough to him again. She had certainly made a bloody damn mess of the last situation and surely he would spurn her advances immediately if she tried something more. So that left only one option.

Her shoulders rose with a deep, heaving breath.

Escape.

Her stomach turned, gurgling with the thought. She would not be able to go back to the home she had known since she was thirteen and it probably was better if they thought she was dead. She would also most likely never see her book again, and that thought alone shattered her already bruised heart. But perhaps her father would have would have preferred it. He would want her to find her own life, her own path. A father who could write such loving words would certainly want his daughter to find happiness, wouldn't he? A father would want his daughter to find love no matter how slim the chance of that might be. Of that she was sure.

Loti felt suddenly relieved. There would be no more rape, no more half slept nights waiting for Fat Fingers to provoke her into fighting back so he could become more aroused, no more feeling of helplessness and shame in the middle of the night as the screams of other girls being defiled floated down the dark halls and past her ears.

She relaxed against Eomer's chest, and his arm shifted to keep her propped in the saddle. He was the other reason she must run. If she didn't, she knew without a doubt one day she would lie beneath him in his bed, not because he forced her, but because she went willingly. Her head rested on his shoulder and all thoughts ceased as she went limp in the cradling arms of Eomer and sleep.

He didn't have to speak. She knew who it was by his boots and looked up from her spot on the ground.

"C'mon. Get up." Eomer demanded.

It was late that same day and the haze and stickiness that had suffocated them as they traveled further south still hung thickly in the air. Even sitting under the shade of the tree Loti felt considerably hotter just looking at Eomer. He was still clad in his heavy steel and leather armor, and his wavy golden locks clung to his face and neck, soaked with water and sweat. Her own abundant hip length hair acted like a scarf and she could feel droplets of sweat running down the nape of her neck and between her breasts.

The camp this evening was in a small wooded clearing off the main road, and Eomer's men were making themselves and their horses comfortable wherever they could as the muggy heat showed no signs of offering any cooling relief over night.

Eomer made impatient waggling motions with his fingers.

"Before it get's to dark," he added.

_Before it get's to dark for what_, she wondered as he cleanly jerked her to standing in one fluid motion.

They mounted Firefoot and disappeared alone into the woods as the iron gray charger, shiny with his own coat of sweat, trampled a heedless path through the bracken. Now Loti became worried. Where were they off to, just the two of them? Some secret, private rendezvous spot, perhaps? A place well away from his men where they could lay down, make love, cry out and only the trees and the birds would know she did not deny the King of Rohan all the pleasures her body could offer. She didn't think it was possible to feel any more flushed, but knew heat was rising in her face and a shimmering sweat clung damply to her skin. Proud Loti, so aloof and detached, moaning like a whore, begging for her enemy to ravish her under his violently thrusting body; spreading her legs for the man who ordered her brother's death. The image and feel of her hard nipples and soft breasts flattened against his chest, his manhood pressing into her belly as she arched to him, the wondrous ache of their joining, of his sweat slick body meeting and convulsing with her own among the ferns and heather of the forest floor made her ill at ease, confused and wholly feminine.

How ironic that not only was she afraid of what he might do, but of what her own body wanted.

Loti thought they had ridden about two miles from the camp; the warmth of their closeness becoming uncomfortable again in the stagnant weather. Firefoot broke abruptly out of the woods into a grassy clearing. His lurching cantor and stubborn resistance to Eomer's direction indicated the stallion's severe displeasure with his master and a desire to return to camp and enjoy a well earned bucket of oats and the company of an attractive mare.

It took a moment for Loti to realize what was going on. Slinking quietly through the woods was a large stream or a small river. There was no wind, and the current flowed so wearily the only movement on the water's surface were wire legged bugs straddling the tension of the water and nipping fish lips that couldn't resist the opportunity to dine on fresh water walker.

Eomer helped her from the saddle as he always did by catching her carefully in his arms and placing her safely back on the ground.

"What are we doing here?" She asked warily as he released her from his hold but still stood disturbingly close.

"If I have to ride with you, at least you could smell decent," he said with very little enthusiasm.

So he had not brought her here for a session of unabashed love making, but for a bath.

"Oh," Loti answered, breathing out heavily in relief for many reasons, "Thank you."

Reaching inside the saddle bag, he produced a linen wrapped square. She took the proffered square chunk and with a sniff determined it was an unused bar of oatmeal soap. The simple idea of being clean for the first time in weeks seemed like a luxury more precious than gold. Holding her by the elbow, he unsheathed the knife from his back and sliced the rope binding her hands. She turned on heel making a bee line for the water when Eomer's arm ran out of length and she hurtled back towards him in a tipsy circle.

His hand pinched her elbow tightly as he spoke his warning through bared teeth.

"If you even think about running away, I swear on my mother's grave, I'll cut off your arm. Understand?"

She gave a quick nod and he released her from his grip.

Eomer watched her go, beating a barefooted path to the water's edge, and eyeing those rounded, swinging hips and tight ass. He would be a liar if he didn't admit he had undressed her in his mind dozens of times in the last few weeks, and the prospect of seeing her naked made him as hot and bothered as the day felt. After last night he was curious to know what other secrets did that tight little body hid.

Women in the South were thin and petite. Not the rounded, voluptuous type of woman most commonly found in the Mark. The kind of woman he had known for the last fifteen years; the kind of woman who could handle a man of his size and strength. The girl he bedded last night was like that; smooth and soft in the right places and very…

_Talented_, he quipped to himself.

He was only mostly drunk when he approached her in the tavern. She was a local girl, a pretty, fair skinned milk maid, but she was also a lusty, young widow and mother of three small children. Her need for him was greater than his need for her and she eagerly invited him back to her bed to spend the rest of the night anonymously making love. It was not love making, though. It was fucking in its most simplistic and basic form. They offered each other no commitment, no words of comfort, and no false promises of the future. Only the simple acts of receiving pleasure from the other's body and finding it from within their own. She wanted it rough, as hard, as fast, and as often as he could do it and he had been more than willing to fulfill the need of a lonely woman.

And yet, he felt regret about it…Many regrets.

_Fucking damn it, you're an animal, man!_ He thought with a rueful smile.

He used the girl from last night, whoever she was. It wasn't her who made him hard, it wasn't her whose moist lips and warm mouth that found him willing, it wasn't her who he thought of at his peak all three times during the night, it wasn't her who woke in his arms, caressing him insatiably.

It was the sneaky bitch he was with now! Why did it have to be the southern bitch he was preoccupied with all night? He should have thrown her on the bed and had his way with her before she had a chance to protest. The familiar swelling ache in his chest, belly and loins made him groan audibly, and he reached down to adjust himself, his hand confirming what he already knew, she was seducing him again without even trying.

_Down boy_, he commanded uselessly.

There was never any chance he would force her into his bed. He was a man of honor and integrity. She seduced him to kill him not because she needed his body in her bed. He couldn't and wouldn't take her to bed until he knew…

Eomer turned at the sound of swishing and sloshing water. The waterway cut sharply into the earth with no shoreline and the depth of the water came nearly to the top of its bank. She was balancing along the edge, dragging one of her slim toes tentatively through the water, checking its temperature.

She did seem to have an elf-like grace about her, and Eomer was positive he was not the first hot blooded man to ever notice. How many of his own men, given the chance, would like to have an opportunity to seek her attention. Beyond her filthy mouth and disheveled appearance she really did glisten with a refined elegance, and wherever she went, whatever she did, the wench practically floated with the ease of a dove caught in a breeze. Her mysteriousness, her unwillingness to speak continued to plague him with unanswered questions, chief among them at the moment was would she ride him as effortlessly as she rode a horse.

Great Eu's balls! She must have put a spell on him, why else would be so entranced. He was more fascinated with her than a fourteen year old boy in a brothel.

She swung her head around as she traced lines through the surface of the water, casting him a forced smile.

Testily, with arms akimbo, Eomer said, "I didn't bring you here to play. Hurry up. It's not safe out here after dark."

"Aren't you going to clean up?" She asked innocently curious. He didn't exactly smell any better than she did.

"Not if it gets dark before you're finished," he snapped back impatiently, fed up with any delaying tactics she might be using and anxious to wash off the scent of his escapades.

"Oh?" she smiled charmingly over her shoulder, her voice insincerely sweet and lined with condescension, "Seems like you're capable of doing a great many things in the dark…"

Loti's toes shriveled in the cold waters, and the thought of bathing naked in the chilly water was as disagreeable as letting this barbarian see her without wearing a stitch of clothing.

She had no intention of baring herself to his gawking eyes last night; it was enough that he had seen, fondled, and licked the tips of her breasts, but to be alone with him here, especially after last night, with only a few feet and a slippery veil of water between his loins and hers, made her extremely self conscious and apprehensive.

Holding her breath, she jumped in, feet first with a loud splash, thinking it better to have wet clothes than a body that betrayed her, and was surprised to find the water only waist deep. Her fingertips raked the top of the water and she squished sand between her toes as she waded through the stream allowing her body to adjust to the cool water.

She shivered violently once from the contrast of cool water and intense sun and turned back to face Eomer.

"Cold?" He observed with a wry, sideways smile.

She followed his line of sight to where his gaze lingered on the two peaks beneath the linen fabric of her shirt, staring him boldly in the face.

"Maybe you're the one who needs a cold bath," Loti snapped angrily, wondering how long before his tongue started lolling out of his mouth, "Turn around."

Eomer looked indignant at this request and crossed his arms stubbornly, quirking an eyebrow chidingly.

"Are you worried about my virtue or yours?"

In a last ditch effort to preserve what little modesty and dignity she had, Loti began again, sounding more sincere.

"Please. I.."

Nodding reluctantly, Eomer clicked his tongue, yanking on the reigns to lead his mount back to the edge of the clearing, and presented his back to Loti.

He snarled over his shoulder with a derisive reminder, "Don't do anything stupid."

Loti continued wading becoming more accustomed to the cool waters, splashing water over her face and chest, and giggling as a random fish nipped at her foot, mistaking a slender toe for supper. Turning an eye back to Eomer, she saw he was keeping his word, and deep in what must have been a very one sided argument with Firefoot.

So deep in fact he wasn't even paying close attention to her…

The plan to escape Eomer's tight fisted grasp was so freshly conceived, she hadn't even had time to work out the details. First, it seemed the most obvious question was where would she go? For now she might go west, further into Gondor. A large city was best, a place where she could be lost to the masses, maybe, Pelegir, Dol Amroth, or Minas Tirith and as far from the Rohirrim as humanly possible.

The second most obvious question was how would she be able to earn a living? Loti made a mental checklist of all the careers available to young, unmarried women Gondor. There was barmaid, or milkmaid, although she didn't know how to milk, but that was of no consequence, she could learn. She might be able to find employment in a wealthy household as a parlor maid, a chamber maid, a scullery maid, a nurse maid…

_Hmm…_ she thought censoriously, yet proud she was able to make logical and clear headed decisions, _anything other than maid?_

Yes, there certainly was; prostitution.

Before she had finished making any solid plans, Loti lifted herself up and out of the water and stood sodden to the skin and dripping wet along the opposite bank. She swung her head over her shoulder, matted wet hair flying, to catch one last glimpse of Eomer. One last look to always remind her of Thoedred and a life she could have known.

He had raised his head at the sound of sluicing water and was staring fiercely, his eyes, cold as frozen steel, begged and warned.

"Come back now," his expression said.

There were no second thoughts. She made a decision to escape from him, and come what may; there was no go back on it now.

Flashing a wicked grin, Loti spun on her heel and ran.

She heard him behind her, his long legs crashing through the stream, and following her path over the fern covered ground while swearing curses and threats. The forest undergrowth was tall and thick with bracken and the soil, soft and spongy, keeping her bare feet from injury unlike the rough, choppy, and gravel strewn main road. She ran as silently as she could, leaping when necessary, ducking and dodging when she had to; anything to stay a head of a Eomer's long gaining strides. His shouting was getting nearer.

Halting, she darted behind the giant trunk of an oak tree and pressed her chest and belly tightly against it, lying in wait for her pursuer. A moment later Eomer ran past, wet, but in hot pursuit. She watched from her hiding place as he too stopped and searched the ground purposefully, hurriedly trying to pick up her trail, wandering in circles, going over the same pieces of ground over and over again. He spun once more, head up and eyes alert for even the smallest movement. His gaze drifted in the direction of her hiding place, and Loti shifted, scooting further around the trunk to better conceal her body. She moved silently, unfortunately the ferns, sticks, dried leaves, and other assorted forest floor debris were not as quiet. Eomer's head snapped back towards the rustling sounds.

Loti held her breath, pressing her cheek to the mildew speckled, scaly bark, hoping he would mistake her for an errant rabbit or squirrel. Gauging the distance between them, possibly 30 yards, she thought it was still far enough to get the jump on him if necessary.

"Come out now, and I promise no harm will come to you," he insisted calmly.

Cautiously, she poked her head out from behind the tree, catching a fleeting glimpse of him before pushing off and breaking out into a sprint.

"Stop! Damn you!" he roared.

He was after her then, his heavy footfalls indicative of his closing distance and the jingle of armor and weapon hindered him not in the least.

Loti felt her gorge rising, the swelling of apprehension in her belly as she darted to and fro, cutting sharply around trees, dashing through thickets with leaps, and sweeping aside low hanging branches. She counted the rhythmic beat of their footsteps over her sucking breathing. He was gaining, cutting the space between them with every step!

Now he was right behind! There was the feeling of his hand on her back and with a mighty shove she flew forward, stumbling and tripping. Unable to keep her balance, Loti sprawled headlong into the bracken with a thump, rolling over only to find Eomer's colossal frame crashing down on her. The weight of his fall knocked some of her breath away, and she wheezed her lungs desperate for air. As she labored for breath, he trapped her arms at her sides with his elbows and pushed her shoulders into the dirt. Loti let out an almighty scream, realizing she lay pinned to the ground, carrying his full weight, and his leg between hers. She thrashed beneath his lead weighted body, and intense rage on his face. Lost in his anger he would take her body by force, or worse, bring her within inches of death, and leave her to the mercy of wolves, ravens and other scavengers.

"Get away from me!" Her high pitched voice shrieked, loudly and desperately.

He snarled, "I'm not going to hur-"

It hadn't been a direct hit, but a full on blow by her knee wasn't needed to make his stones shrivel into pebbles. His body tensed for a moment in agony. Moaning painfully, his muscles slackened and his grip loosened enough for Loti to squirm out from underneath his hulking ogre-ness. She was crawling on hands and knees, panting and panicking, clamoring to get back to her feet. Eomer wasn't going to let a little thing like pair of bruised, aching, and possibly useless testicles keep his quarry from escaping again. He summoned the strength to move from the same place his balls had shrunken into, and stumbled after her, groaning. His huge hand caught her bare ankle, and with a yank, she sprawled flat to the ground. Loti rolled, pounding with the heel of her other foot down on the clenched fingers of his hand. One good kick numbed his hand, causing his grasp to open automatically. Quickly scrabbling, but with her head still mired in desperation and dread, she ignored Eomer's hasty warning.

"Don't go over there!"

The sun was low in the sky, but rays of light still dappled through the trees. From his spot stretched out along the ground he could see the illuminated fuzziness of the patches of green foliage she was crawling through; the delicate hollow hairs of stinging nettles.

Loti screamed again; this time in obvious pain. Her hands and feet glowed sharp and very hot, tingling, prickling, and rippling like a million fine sewing needles jabbing into her skin. She rioted in the dirt, flinging her hands crazily, searching for the tiny reddish bodies of fire ants but none could be found.

"I'm burning!" She screeched, her voice cracking in pain as she tried rubbing the fireless stinging away.

"Don't! That'll make it worse! I'll come get you!"

Instead, she shot to her feet, and started to run, tears welling in her eyes. Suddenly, she was off the ground, snatched around the waist by Eomer's long arms. Kicking futilely in the air, Loti forgot about the painful stinging of her hands and feet. Her arms were not confined by his clutching and she flailed them wildly, catching him with an unanticipated pointed elbow to the throat. He made a very sickening noise somewhere between a gurgle and a moan, and sunk to the ground, dragging her down with him. She laid full length on her back atop him, wiggling, struggling and fighting to be free. Too stubborn to release her from his grasp, he endured one misplaced kick to the groin, and several more elbows to the face, one of which bloodied his nose and another cracked a tooth.

He spat out the tooth.

He had enough of her antics. She didn't listen, didn't obey, and didn't heed any of his warnings. Now she must be punished, made forcibly to submit; now he would use that fear he had seen in her eyes to his advantage.

Heaving, he rolled over, flattening the lithe little body beneath his weight. He crushed her shoulders to the dirt, placed a knee in the small of her back and cuffed her with a good solid "thunk" in the back of the head. Standing hastily, Eomer paced in frustration, wiped his bloody nose and the laced his hands on top of his head in asperity. There came a whimper from her horizontal form as she slowly lifted her hands to cover the knot that was growing on her head.

"I hate you," he heard her croak.

He rubbed his palms raggedly over his face and through his loose, blonde hair. Never before had he hit a woman. That she had pushed him to those lengths, made him violate his beliefs, that she left him with few other options ignited his fury anew.

"Wicked, foolish bitch!" He mumbled, frowning.

With the toe of his muddy, wet boot, he rolled her face up. Her eyelids were heavy as she came around, weighed down by her lengthy black eyelashes and the drowsiness of semi-consciousness. The girl's expression was stunned confusion, like that of a fainting goat he thought cheerlessly, and her eyes glassy and almost sightless with shock.

Eomer's anger controlled him now and he could find no sympathy in his heart for her plight.

"Girl, you're gonna get it now," his voice sounded assuringly brutal even to his own ears, "You'll beg for death before I'm done!"

Moving fast, he jerked her arm, easily hoisting her damp, unstruggling body across his shoulders and marched back in the direction of the wide stream. Once there, he waded in, released his grip, and dumped her off his broad back. She hit the water with a yelp and a noisy splash.

Popping out of the water with a gasp and a water flinging shake of the head, Eomer pounced, throttling his prisoner with a belittling tirade.

"Where did you think you were going!" He demanded through gritted teeth.

"You have no shoes, no weapons, no food, no clothing, no money, no horse. Ghaw! You couldn't even stay out of the nettles!"

Eomer raised her red, rash covered hands to her face.

"Do you have any idea what's out here after dark?" His voice was intense and menacing as he pointed to the surrounding woods, "Orcs roam these lands at night. What do you think they would do to an unarmed girl?"

"I can take care of myself!"

The blanched pallor of her face was darkening to a fiery red, and he shook her, beginning to lose what little control he had left.

"And how would you do that against twenty or thirty of them? I've seen what they do to unarmed men and women. At the very least they'd rape and beat you!"

"So there's no difference between you and them," Loti spat accusingly.

The back of his hand stopped half way to her face.

Oh, how he wanted to hit her again. He wanted to punish her; to leave his mark so she would always remember what happened when she disobeyed. But, that he could even think of doing it again made him sick, and she was right; he would be no better than the beasts that wandered these places if he did so. There were other ways of dealing with her, other ways less physical and more punishing.

Loti grimaced as he snatched a handful of her wet hair.

"You deliberately disobeyed me," he snarled, pulling her head back so he could see the winching pain on her lovely face, "And for that you will be punished."


	7. Chapter 7  A Lesson In Persuasion

Author's Note: Hello again! Sorry this didn't get published right away but i wanted to finish chapter 8 and post it together for reasons you might understand when you read it.

Thanks for all the nice reviews! The more you leave the more likely I might be to write faster! It is really encouraging!

Just something to keep in mind... Men and women are different, duh, but beyond that, men don't tell women how they feel. They show women how they feel. It really is the little things that can show a man's true feelings.

Thanks again!

* * *

The return journey took twice as long.

He carried her the whole, entire miserable way back to camp; her wretched little body slung over his shoulders if for no other reason than to humiliate and cripple her pride. She fidgeted considerably, and jawed, jeered, squawked and swore with virtually the every step; this he had expected. But it was his loyal friend of seven years that gave Eomer the most trouble. Whether it was from the girl's hysterics or the beast's patent dislike of his treatmoent of her, the answer mattered little. Firefoot balked, shied, whinnied, reared and generally acted rude, impertinent, and sour as he was led through the trees and undergrowth until his master threatened to deprive him of the company of his favorite mare for a month. After that brief one sided exchange, the stallion changed his tune drastically and was the model of perfect behavior, something Eomer wished the girl would emulate.

His men must have heard them coming from a distance, bellyaching and yammering as she did. Large congregations of men stood together in the center of the camp as he emerged, stalking purposefully from the woods into the clearing. Seeing his leader double burdened, a young man approached as he entered the circle of tents, generously taking Firefoot's reigns, and leading the beast away from the impending fracas.

He was hot, feeling as though he had entered the caverns of Mount Doom, dripping with sweat and parched with thirst. His temper and his anger were also as hot as he was, as hot as the liquid thick day had been.

The crowd of soldiers parted allowing him to pass.

"Find the healer!" He shouted as he came to a stop in the center of the camp, his men backing away hastily.

Eomer searched the crowd of soldiers; forcibly grabbing two of the biggest men he saw and angrily dumping his undulating female load into their waiting arms. They forced her to her knees, pressing down on her shoulders as she fought their restrictive holds. He paced in the space cleared by his men, as more faces came to see the cause for the disturbance.

She knelt before him powerless, restrained, and uncompliant, but she would be none of these things for long…

He smoothed any stray strands of wet hair from her face, his calloused hands abrasive as sandstone on her soft skin. She must see, know, and remember everything that would happen; everything he would do to her tonight.

And he must find the strength to do it.

He loomed ominously above her slavish subservience with the shadows of evening darkness masking his face.

"Monster! Don't touch me!" She exclaimed, trying to wrestle forward, teeth and claws bared, "Just kill me so I don't have to spend another day with you!" Screaming and shaking, she struggled to break free.

In a restrained calm, he spoke through gnashed teeth, "Kill you? No, I'm not going to kill you."

He turned, walking through the pool of light created by the roaring campfire.

"That's because you don't have the stones!" She declared heatedly.

Eomer spun again with direct purpose, eyeing her narrowly, and slowly unbuckling his sword belt. The sword rang with a metallic shriek as it was unsheathed and, casting aside the scabbard heedlessly, he brandished the weapon in her direction. There was little he would do for her now. Everything else she would have to come to terms with on her own.

"Oh, no. I'm not going to kill you," he confessed, wiggling the blade at her chest, "I'm going to do exactly what I said I would do. I'm going to cut off your arm."

She froze, solid as an ice sculpture, and her blood ran like cold water in her veins.

"What?" she cried in disbelief, frantically scanning the faces for Eothain's protection. Only he would have the ability and influence to stop Eomer's madness.

"Hold out her arm. Her right arm," Eomer corrected tersely, even as he seemed to be checking the weight of the sword in his own fully functioning hand, "She's right handed."

Helpless against the strength of the warriors, one soldier stretched out her arm to its fullest length as she released another torrent of obscenities and the other man continued to stay her left arm and the rest of her rigidly tense body.

"You can't do this!" She shouted desperately. Her fists were balled and she breathed raggedly through her teeth, chest heaving. She closely resembled a snake, coiled and ready to strike.

"Why? Because you're a girl? Do you really think I care about that? You're a prisoner, and by rights I can do whatever I want to you," he paused contemplatively, then continued, "You're brave, too brave. And I don't think you're afraid of death. You ask for it, beg for it. It would be a relief for you. No…you're going to be punished for disobedience. I'm going to cut off your arm. Then I will see that you are properly healed and sent back to the Mark to work as a servant in my household. You will wait on me, serve me, and deny me nothing."

He stared intently at Loti as she swallowed distraughtly, tasting the acidic bile that rose at the back of her throat. Her mind lingered on that phrase 'deny me nothing'…

He went on, pacing in agitation, his breath heavy with excitement, "You will be under my protection, at my mercy for your entire existence. Everything that you need to survive, everything that you want will be given by me at my discretion. I will never allow you to marry or be committed to any other man but me. Who would want you? What good would a one armed girl be to any one else but me? Whenever you look at me you will always be reminded of what I've taken from you."

Loti knew exactly what he would be taking from her; any last remnants of her pride, talents, and abilities. He would take her future, hopes, dreams, and her beauty all in one swing of his blade.

She felt the pounding in her temples, the breathless spinning and swaying of fainting, the sickness in her belly, and the tight choking in her throat as if the men behind her held her around the neck instead of by the arms.

"For you, that would be a punishment worse than death." He spoke these words with absolute certainty.

The man recognized as the healer stepped forward then, but Eomer stopped him with a quick wave of his arm. He was twisting the sword in his hand distractedly, like a man bored with the trivialities of life altering events, the steel flashing and reflecting the flames and light from the fire.

"Have you ever seen a man lose his arm to a sword?" He narrowed an eye and sniffed, knowingly arrogant. "Of course you have. You're a murderer. So you'll know then if it's not sharp, it won't cut clean through on the first swing."

He drew his thumb over the blade's edge, nicking the skin's tough pad and showing her the blood that oozed from the slice. A large ball of blood bubbled, and he brought it to his mouth, cleaning the cut by sucking.

"If you promise to hold still, I'll make it as painless as possible," he said with a vicious lilt in his voice, laying the flat of the blade across her slim arm.

Her eyes were as clouded and waxy as candlesticks and he didn't have to cut her to know she bled; not the hot stickiness of iron rich blood, but the cold despair of fear.

"No! Stop! P- Please!" She stammered, unable to move.

"Why should I offer you any mercy? I'm a barbarian! A monster! Isn't that what you said?" He retorted, using her own words in a malicious taunt, holding out his arms, palms up, in that supreme gesture of dominance only a man of his size could command.

"Please!" Loti implored, gagging on the words as they came out, "Please, no!"

The cold, flat steel shaft of the blade swept methodically, first over, then under her arm, choosing where he would sever it. He was choosing were he would maim and cripple her. Where he would leave her a freak, a shell of her former self, a scorned and worthless woman to be ridiculed and laughed at. Everyone would know he had done this to her, and why. He would be the only one to have her then. He was right; she would be at his mercy forever.

She jumped when he yelled, "If you won't talk you're of no further use to me!"

"You wouldn't?"

He reached out, a hand digging though and twisting a handful of her wet hair, jerking her head back, demanding her eyes. Loti sucked a breath in through her teeth, her face glistening with sweat and contorted in pain.

"Wouldn't I?" His voice was getting louder, more belligerent, the muscles of his neck and jaw strained, "How many men do you think have died by this sword? How many men do you think I've killed? If this sword killed your brother you should be lucky now it will only take your arm. Girl or not, you are a murderer, and under our laws that is punishable by death. You should be grateful I don't slit your pretty white throat! You should be thankful I've shown you any kindness at all!"

"I'll tell you whatever you want!" Her words tore lose from her throat in a high scream.

"It's too late for that! I'm done with you!"

Terrorized and panic stricken she uttered a constricted, gagging scream and blurted, "There are more just like me. They want you dead. They're planning something. That's all I know, I swear by the Valor! I beg of you, please, don't hurt me!"

Eomer ripped back her head again, keeping it at a painfully awkward angle, bringing his face only inches from hers so she couldn't avoid his gaze.

"Swear to tell me everything. Swear it!"

"Yes, I swear! Please, don't hurt me!"

"Are you afraid of me, girl?" he roared, raging, blue eyes burning, and shaking her by the length of her rich brown hair, "Are you afraid of me?"

She made a quiet strangling sound, like that of a girl choking on a sob, and her lips began to quiver. Loti shivered despite herself and the heat. Eomer slowly felt the tension leave her body until she hung limp as a dead flower in their arms. Her eyes were clear now, as round and glossy as polished gems stones. Tears of hurt and pain pooled, and then broke into streams when she blinked. Finally, she released an anguished cry of defeat, and humiliation; the cry of a girl broken beyond repair.

"Yes!" she wailed, choking on that one small word.

He stepped back, letting go of her hair, still watching as she bravely made an effort to control her weeping.

"Good," he answered coldly, "I don't want the blood of any woman on my hands. Get her out of my sight."

Eomer spun, giving directions to the healer, and bullied a path through the crowd. Heedlessly, he bumped in to Eothain, who had been standing in the back of the mob, but now blocked the way.

"Was that really necessary?" He asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with his friend, a look of disapproval furrowing his brow.

"She knocked a perfectly good tooth out of my head, so, yah," he replied shortly, rubbing his sore windpipe, "Put extra men on guard tonight. Every orc in Ithillien could her scream," and brushed past, wishing for the solitude the emptiness of his tent would bring.

He barged through the opening, whipping back the flap, and ducking his head. With what strength he had left, Eomer spread his hands on the desk, and dropped his chin to his chest.

_Damn her!_

His fist struck the hard wood of the desk causing the miscellaneous items on the top to jump, and the ink well rolled to the ground spilling its precious contents.

_Damn her!_

A bottle of whiskey was on the desk, still upright, and with a sweep of his hand, he snatched it, then sank on the edge of the bed. The pull he took from the bottle was long and he swallowed several thick mouthfuls of the stomach burning liquor. He was sick; sick with the mouth watering nausea of disgust and self loathing. Head held in his hands, he tried with all his might to block out the image branded in to the backs of his eyes; the sight of her curled, wet lashes and heavy tears, like pearls against her sun touched skin. At that moment, he considered, no man hated himself more.

He brought the bottle back to his lips.

Bema forgive him for what he had just done.

Eomer barely looked up when the healer brought her in some time later; her hair, face, and clothes looking worn, damp, and as disreputable as he felt. He left her standing in silence for several tension filled moments while he finished reading one page of the endless stack of reports, notes, letters, and other various communiqués from his leaders in the field.

His peripheral vision saw her shifting her weight from one foot to the other front of his desk, and not waiting for his permission, she spoke very succinctly.

"So, what? Am I to be your slave now?"

Nothing about him changed; he continued reading with his feet inclined on the corner of the desk, crossed at the ankles, looking prepossessing and collected.

"Don't be silly. Men of the Riddermark don't keep slaves." Eomer answered in his markedly matter of fact way.

Her wrists were tied again and she raised both arms to wipe the sweat that glowed on her cheeks with the sleeves of her shirt. As she did so, his glance fell on the loose, rounded outlines of her breasts hidden beneath the linen fabric and his palm tingled with the memory of her hard, taught nipple alive beneath his hand. Was it only last night he had held her in his lap and smoothed his fingers over the firm, rounded lines of her body?

"What is your name?" He asked coolly, looking challengingly into her eyes, and set the page down amid the stack of other sheets. It was best if he didn't let his mind linger in remembrance of the pervious night.

Her mouth twitched with the unwillingness to speak, but she took a deep breath of resignation.

"Loti."

"Loti. That's a pretty name," he nodded agreeably, not taking his eyes from her,"Where are you from?"

Again, she felt the defiance rise inside her chest. Fighting him was useless, though. Her spirit was broken; she had no leverage, and was dependent upon him for her survival. The King of Rohan would have his answers one way or another.

"Umbar."

"And who do you work for, Loti?"

"The Corsair Lords," Loti replied reluctantly as a gust of wind stirred the canvas tent, rushing in through the door way and blowing wisps of hair in her face. The brazier burned high in the center of the tent and crackled as the breeze tickled its edges and encouraged the lapping tongues of flame to ripple faster.

Eomer smiled wryly within himself. So they had been right; she was from the South. But there were so many other unanswered questions.

"I didn't know they used women as spies," he stated, hoping she would take the hint and elaborate.

"That's because we do not actually exist."

Mmhmm." This was a gruff noise made in the back of his throat, and he steepled his fingers.

_Plausible deniability_, he thought shrewdly. The girl before him was a resource. A spy burned, cast out. Sent on a mission to kill… and to be killed. But, she was a girl nonetheless. A girl who was meant to die… Let Eomer, the marauding, raping, pillaging, man eating barbarian and his horde of ruthless beasts destroy the chit. After all, the dead never speak… No one would ask questions, and if by chance someone should, they would deny she ever existed.

_And they call me barbarian._

They, whoever _they_ were, had not counted on the mercifulness of EomerKing.

Loti shifted her weight again, but stood stiff, tense and proud with her head high.

"The location of that camp was secret. How long had you been following us?"

Her answer was trite and noncommittal, "For a few weeks."

"What were you doing in Aldburg? In the market?"

Rocking back in the chair, he crossed his arms, keeping a suspicious eye on her for any indication of untruths in her story.

She answered in the same short, quick manner as her other responses, "Trying to get into your bed."

"You mean trying to _kill_ me while you were in my bed," he corrected sternly.

A hesitant nod was her answer.

His expression softened in sympathy for a woman who could not be living a life of her own choosing, but of another's.

"You are no killer," he observed confidently.

Loti's eyes flashed and the features on her face widened in reaction to his words. The only reaction she had given him since the questioning began. Then she hardened again, her face returning to its stone carved expressionless and she spoke arrogantly cold.

"That's not what Durward would say."

"Durward?" Eomer repeated incredulously, and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, "That was you?"

She smiled satisfactorily in response to his surprise before sobering again, as if remembering a coveted victory.

Durward, his obnoxious, and enormously fat ambassador from Gondor, vehemently refused to reside at his family's ancestral home in the rolling countryside outside Aldburg, with the objection that is was too far from courtly civilization. Instead the foul, greasy haired man had taken up residence at an inn inside the small city. Eomer and five of his guard had ridden to town without haste the morning a messenger appeared on his doorstep immediately requesting the King's presence at the inn. Upon entering the room, they found the gluttonous Durward of Gondor in bed, lying on his back, naked as a jay, and dead, with his throat cut. Not just cut, slashed, nearly severing his head and his body brutally mutilated. He had seen brutality before, even caused some of it himself, but never considered a woman would have committed such a barbarous, bloodthirsty act.

As though she were reading his mind, she shrugged and said absently, "Things got out of hand," but could not meet his eye.

"Indeed," he agreed critically.

So seduction was her method of operation. It was _how_ she did things, but not necessarily _why_. She let the sweaty, obese man find his ease inside her, and then killed him when he did not supply the information she needed. The ambassador's killing plainly accomplished two goals. First, she knew the fat bastard's death would draw him out of his home and into the city, leaving him exposed and accessible, and, second, she would have full accesses to any and all of Durward's documents. That answered his questions about her knowledge of the hidden camp.

Durward was never without his three Gondorian guards, not trusting his safety to the perceived ignorance of the Rohirrim. Those three men, though, could not be found that morning, and it was assumed they had killed the ambassador for any number of reasons and deserted the Gondorian army.

"What happened to his men?" He asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

"What do you think happened to them?" Her words were calm when she spoke, almost remorseless, unfeeling, and although she faced him, she appeared to look through him and not at him.

Not sure if he wanted to find out, he probed further, "How did it happen?"

"They wanted me. I gave them what they wanted," she admitted plainly, "They were not gentle. Neither was I."

"What did you do with them?"

"I dumped them in the woods outside of town."

Eomer recalled the scene from the room at the inn. There was blood in the bed, but not nearly as much as there should have been. She must have been beneath his body when the murder took place and she must have been drenched in it.

If Durward's desecrated body didn't make him violently ill, the thought of her shapely, beautiful body being ridden by that fat, conceited lout certainly did. Had she no self respect?

"Well," Eomer began with a rueful curving of his mouth, "I think maybe I should thank you for doing me a great favor. But that is not who you are."

"You know nothing about me," Loti snapped bitterly, "Your arrogance presumes too much."

"I know enough."

His feet dropped from the desk. Rising effortlessly from his chair, he strode to tower before her; his face soft, relaxed and unconcerned. Loti, too caught up in fear of another potential physical confrontation, barely felt the cool metal of his knife slicing the ropes that bound her hands together. Her wrists were sore and chafed from the rough fibers of the hemp rope and she soothed the irritated skin, gingerly rubbing with circled thumb and forefinger. Wordlessly, he spun; purposely presenting his back to her and sheathing his knife against the leather back plate of his armor as he strode to a large traveling chest near his bed. Throwing open the lid, he rooted around inside with a clattering racket before choosing one item and allowing the top to slam shut with a loud _thud._ He held up a leather bound book, shook it in acknowledgement as if to ask if she recognized it, tossed it lightly on his desk, and relaxed back into his seat.

Loti lunged forward, leaning on the desk, attempting to snatch the book away. Eomer's huge hand slapped down on it loudly, fingers spread, smothering the entire book.

"Na-ah!" He admonished, pushing her away from the desk with only the pointing of a finger.

He removed his hand from the book, resting it on the arm of the chair.

"You're sloppy."

Her chin lifted higher in indignation, but she said nothing.

"The first thing a solider learns in his training is not to carry anything that may compromise him if he's captured by the enemy. You got careless. You know what else I know about you," he continued answering his own question, "You're not very good at what you do. Carelessness and emotions are not qualities highly prized by any good spy or killer. You care more about this book than you do your own life. So tell me, why does a girl who says she's nothing more that a killer have a book of poems about love?"

She leapt forward again, swiping for the book. "That's mine! Give it back! How dare you!"

Eomer grabbed the book from the desk top before her thieving fingers could reach it. She snatched for it again in the air and he blocked her with his shoulder. Lazily, he swished though the pages, some of them crinkling and looking rippled from their wet foray in the rain as she retreated.

"I was able to dry it out. Only a few of the pages are badly damaged," he confessed, somewhat appreciative of his own work, "I can see why you're so desperate to get it back."

Hissing, she said, "You mock me."

"Hardly," Eomer scowled, paused momentarily, and then baited her like a fish, "What are you willing to do to get it back."

"Anything!" She jumped in immediately, not caring about the consequences of what 'anything' might be. It meant everything, and she would do anything.

But the book lay open in the palms of his hands, forgotten.

"Swear loyalty to me."

"What? Why?" she sputtered but was interrupted.

"Let me make you a deal for your freedom."

Eomer turned in his seat, put the book down, and leaned his forearms on the desk with the slithering sound of chain mail. There was nothing alacritous in his eyes, only a businesslike austerity.

"Go on," Loti prompted hesitantly, crossing her arms in a defensive posture.

"You can obviously read," he gestured at the book, "I assume you can write?"

"Yes."

"And you speak the language of the Haradrim?"

Loti narrowed her eyes into slits, frowning in confusion and feeling a tinge of suspicion, "It's one language, many dialects, but yes, I speak many of them. What do you want from me?"

A thought filled pause hung between them before he slumped back in the chair, kicked his feet back up on the desk, and spoke in that deep, husky voice Loti was sure always got him what he wanted.

"You know were we're going, don't you?"

"Yes. I have an idea."

Eomer nodded. A distracted sort of movement as if he was not sure if he should continue and toyed with aimless fascination over a penknife, twisting it idly between his fingers.

_Get on with it man,_ he told himself, _she's no fool._

"We'll continue south, to the River Poros, and meet with twenty five hundred of my men. From there we will go to camp on the River Haren."

He was laying it all out now. She would figure it out soon, if she didn't know already.

"We've been asked by Gondor to act as peacekeepers along the borders to keep your people from retaking Harondor, South Gondor," he explained, rubbing a hand over the raspiness of his variegated blonde beard and using both names more out of dislike than clarification.

"Peacekeepers?" Loti piped up, "Is that what you're calling occupation? One man's peacekeeper is another man's occupier!"

Not appreciating the pseudo lecture and interruption, he tossed back, "One man's freedom fighter is another man's assassin, isn't she?"

"Harondor belongs to my people," she quickly put in.

"South Gondor is disputed territory that rightfully belongs to Gondor, and it's our job to see it stays that way," Eomer said forcibly, not caring if she was offended, "Eru only knows why you people fight over such a hellish, forsaken piece of ground."

"You go because you have to," she taunted, alluding to his oath of loyalty to Gondor.

His voice rose at what she implied, losing some of its neutrality, "I go to protect my people from men who care nothing for their freedom or their rights as individuals. I go to protect my people from men who would enslave them and force them into lives that they do not want."

He watched as Loti flushed to a rosy pink at his own implication.

"I know what you say."

"Do you?"

"You pity me!" she chirped hotly.

"Shouldn't I?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

She shifted her weight again and swallowed convulsively, feeling a bit nervous as she lied with an exhalation, "I can quit this life anytime I want."

"Then prove it."

Her mouth was dry with nervousness, and Loti knew as well as he did, she was cornered her like a fox chased by a pack of relentless dogs.

She flipped a lock of loose hair over her shoulder. "What do you want from me?"

Eomer chose his next words carefully. "You have a very specific set of skills. Skills that you have that I need. Eothain has been helping with some of my work, but when we reach the Poros he will be assigned other duties. My men are brave and good soldiers but very few can read, and even fewer can write. So,_ that_ is why you are here…"

"Me?" She stammered curiously.

"Mmhmm, yes. You can read and write, take direction, you can work unsupervised, you have discipline. You have far more loyalty and honor than some men. You are a very smart girl, Loti."

Her gaze cast to her feet in utter embarrassment.

"Has no one ever told you that?" he wondered aloud, but somehow thought her reaction answered the question.

Meekly, Loti shook her head, and bit her lip confirming his assumption. No longer pink with heat, she was turning a very unbecoming shade of green.

"This is my offer," he began quickly, articulating his bargain with seasoned professionalism, "You will swear allegiance to Rohan and to me. You will act as my assistant. I'll assign you the duties of the King's secretary, and you'll help me with my duties and act as an interpreter for as long as your services are necessary. In exchange, when your help is no longer needed, I'll give you a place of importance in my household in Aldburg, and provide for you for the rest of your life. I give you my word that you'll not want for anything, and you'll be cared for. And if you should marry I will provide your dowry. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal?" she repeated, shocked by a suggestion that seemed so well practiced, "Do you know what you ask of me?"

"I do."

"You killed my brother!"

His voice was tightly controlled but the anger still seeped through his words, "Well, your people's allies killed my entire family, so I'd say we're even."

"And what if I refuse?" She questioned defiantly.

He laughed a short quick snort through his nose, "You can't go back and you know it. You're a failed spy. You've been burned. You'll be out in the cold at the very least, if not running for your life every time you look around once they find out you're still alive. I've never known the Haradrim to be men of mercy and forgiveness. Especially to women."

Then he stopped and held her eyes, willing her to trust him. He would not turn her out into an unknown fate, to end up dead in a street somewhere, destitute and alone because she thought him untrustworthy. But she must come to him, and to Rohan of her own accord. She must be allowed to make her own decisions, to choose her own path if she is to be truly free.

"They may not be, but I am," he concluded.

The girl still looked hesitant, timid, and unsure. She had been through so much in the last weeks; that she still had the courage to battle him was quite admirable.

"I'll let you walk out that door right now if you can tell me how you're going to take care of yourself. Homes, farms, businesses, they've been destroyed in the war. Food is as hard to come by as money and employment. You're my prisoner and your welfare is my responsibility. I don't want you throwing your life away over some foolish, asinine pride. So until you can show me how you'll live and not just survive, I think my offer is the best you can do."

Her face was as dour as she sounded, but she said with a gall he was beginning to find endearing, "You are not as ignorant as you look."

A wry smile curved his thin lips, "Neither are you."

"No. I cannot go and help you to kill my people. I will not allow it." Her head was shaking back and forth, inflexibly.

"It isn't my intention to kill or fight unless I have reason. My own men put their lives at risk, and I want them all to return home. Our duty is to keep the peace, to secure the borders and put down any uprisings," Eomer answered in his best attempt to soothe her fears, "Yes, men might die; both yours and mine. But if we don't go, if we don't act now I'm positive there will be another war, and more men _will _die. If you agree to help me it doesn't have to be that way. No other woman may suffer the way you have."

There were no protestations this time, only what he thought looked like contemplation in the mirrors of her eyes.

"If you're afraid of being the only woman among the men you have nothing to fear from us. No one here will hurt you. That I can promise."

His tone was reassuring, but Loti licked her dry lips anxiously.

Eomer, the King of the Riddermark. She watched him twisting the penknife between his fingers listlessly. He was a man. And she was all nerves and bundles of knots in his presence. But did she have a reason to be afraid? She hadn't ridden with him for days without learning a few things about him and one of those things was he was a man of his word. If he said he was going to do something, if he made a promise no matter large or small he kept his word. Was he as terrible a man as she was told? Would a man who was pure evil care about the freedom of another, even if that other man was his enemy? Even if that enemy stood before him now?

"I'm not sure I can trust you," Loti said weakly.

"I'm not sure I can trust you, either," he confessed, feeling her ever so slightly being swayed, "But I'm willing to try."

She could hear her mother's chastising voice as though the intoxicated woman were standing beside her, "You're so worried about making the wrong decision, you can't see how to make the right one."

What would her mother want her to do? What, she wondered, would her father want her to do? To put her life and trust in the hands of a man who had felt no remorse for the killing of her brother? Or to put her trust in a man who could offer her a life that was real and whole. She held no hope that any man would love her, but maybe she might learn to love herself.

"Can I think about it?"

"Is it really that hard of a decision?" Coaxed Eomer gently, looking up at her from underneath blonde eyebrows.

It didn't matter what her mother or father wanted. They were dead, gone, out of her life, never, ever to return. It really didn't matter what Eomer wanted. He was a King; there would be others to do his bidding if she chose to decline his request. It was a fair deal. In all honesty, it was more than a fair deal. It was an opportunity to learn a real skill. And she enjoyed reading and writing; was proud of her proficiency in the use of language.

Again her mother's words rang in her ears, "This is the only way out for you."

No, it only mattered what she wanted.

Loti took a deep, shaky breath and blinked back the tears searing the corners of her red rimmed eyes. She swallowed her heart back down into its proper place in her chest. The voice was hers; she could hear it, almost as if from distance, almost like she was removed from her own body.

"Alright. Yes, I agree."

As she heaved a sigh of immense relief, she caught Eomer grinning, looking self assured, pleased and rather smug.

"Good. Now swear your loyalty to me."

"Fine, yes, I swear," she answered dryly.

"No," he drawled, "Say it."

"What? Ugh! Fine," she gripped, and then relented, saying with formal ridiculousness, "I swear loyalty and fealty to you my King and to your country. I am but your humble servant, yours to command, my lord. There, is that better?"

The corner of his mouth puckered, lifting into the smile of a gloating winner, "Much."

"I'm glad to have pleased you, my lord," the newest member of the Rohirrim grumbled sarcastically.

He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms.

"No one calls me that. You may call me Eomer," he lowered his eyes in a somewhat bashful move that Loti thought very unusual for EomerKing, "or E."

Taking another look at her, he decided besides looking thoroughly grubby and rash spotted, she was thin as a May pole. Her face bore very little bruising or other marks from their regrettable attack, except for a tiny slice by both the corner of her eye and lip, but her cheeks were drawn and hollow, and her eyes were darkly circled, sunken and red.

She had eaten very little, only accepting what was hand fed to her by Eothain, and refusing half of that most times. Now seemed like the perfect time to introduce her to an entirely Rohirric custom; doing just about anything over food and drink.

He got up and dragged an empty chair to where she stood, pushing her into it.

"You'll be hungry," this was a statement of assumption rather than a question, "Wait here and we'll talk."

Several moments later he returned carrying a wooden plate laden with meat, cheese, biscuits, a few berries and dried apple slices. This he set on the desk, and Loti noticed he also carried a bottle, which he uncorked and took a healthy swig from before offering her the earthenware container. She brought the bottle cautiously to her lips and drank before sputtering, unsuccessfully stifling a cough, turning reddish purple in the face, and fanning her tongue with a hand. The raw, spicy hot liquid stripped the inside of her mouth like turpentine and left a gurgling puddle in her empty stomach.

"Good stuff," she said hoarsely and coughed again.

He smirked, noting her politeness, "It'd strip the bark off a tree."

Loti, ravenously eyeing the plate of food, barely paid attention as he returned to his seat behind the desk. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten a decent meal, let alone decent food. No, she did remember, although she'd like to forget sitting naked on the lap of that pervert Durward as he fed her with his stubby fingers.

"Eat. Please," Eomer insisted, watching her stare pitifully at the plate like a begging dog.

Needing no further prodding, she snatched a fried oatcake and a chuck of meat and began stuffing her mouth, cramming in as many bites as she could, dropping crumbs everywhere, until her cheeks puffed out. He grinned to himself, thinking she resembled a chipmunk gluttonously devouring even the most inedible nuts in preparation for winter.

"Careful," he warned and pushed the whiskey bottle towards her, "If you eat to fast you'll be sick."

The stringy meat was rich and moist and tasted sweetly smoky. Pulling chunks of meat apart and chewing, Loti asked speculatively, "What is this?"

Eomer reached for a piece himself, "Turkey. I think."

Her fingers snapped up another slice of succulent meat and hunks of the orange cheese cut into cubes.

As she ate and chewed industriously, he asked, "Is there anyone I can contact for you? To let them know you're…here, with us. Your father or…a husband, maybe."

She looked up, wide eyed and chubby cheeked. Swallowing hard, she stammered, confused, "Contact? No…no there is no one."

"No one?" He said skeptically.

Having just sampled the swill from the bottle again, Loti confirmed sadly, "No. No one. There's only me," and continued munching, head bent over the desk.

"Whose daughter are you?"

She continued to eat. Either she was ignoring his question or not paying attention.

"Loti, what's your father's name?" This time his tone demanded an answer, but she didn't raise her head.

"I don't know."

Eomer felt a shooting pang of loss for her in his heart. It wasn't just her mother and brother, but her father, also; her whole family. She truly was alone.

"You're a bastard," he commented off handedly, and then regretted his tactlessness when she sniped, "Thank you for noticing."

Wishing to give her some comfort, and to make amends for sounding so damned crass, he said consolingly, "We're your family now. You are one of us."

At that, she looked up, a new brightness in her eyes. Was what flickered in her restored hope? Did his words give her the promise of life, a future undone and rewritten? Had those dusky eyes pledged faithfully 'you have given me my life; I will give you my loyalty.' He felt the stabbing in his heart again, this time for himself and his own personal loss.

_We will take care of each other_, he decided for them both.

The questioning continued. "How old are you then?"

She shrugged, reaching for the whiskey bottle, which he pushed closer, "Twenty. Almost twenty one."

"Talk then, tell me what you know."

Shaking her head, Loti took another bite of oatcake, sweeping the crumbs from his desk, "I don't know much."

"You know something, though." Eomer knew he sounded irritable.

"You think they tell me anything," she countered harshly, "I get my orders, and the rest is up to me. I'm a girl. They don't trust me with anything?"

"They don't trust you because you're smart," he countered, "So their loss is my gain. Tell me what you do know. What you assume. You've seen too much not to have an idea. Tell me everything."

Now he took a gulp from the bottle, hoping the liquor was doing for her what it was for him. He didn't want her drunk, didn't want her to think he was taking advantage of her in any way. But he did want her relaxed enough to speak without inhibition.

"I…I was given two months to kill you," she began guardedly, "I didn't matter how it got done as long as you were dead and it looked like Gondor did it."

"Gondor?" Eomer interrupted, "Is that why you had the flag?"

Loti flushed, a bit of pink filling her cheeks in the wavering firelight.

"I…I liked to look at it. I was reading Durward's letters when he caught me and attacked me. We fought. I did it with his knife. I was just defending myself!" She rushed, and suddenly, she looked very ashamed, not meeting his gaze, "That's when I knew how to make it look like Gondor killed you. I let his men have me, and then killed them too. I stole Durward's money and paid a man from the tap room downstairs to help me load them into a wagon and bury them. We stripped off their uniforms and weapons. Then the man said what I paid him wasn't enough."

She stopped eating and sat frozen, hunched in the shoulders, "He took the rest of the money from me and then said if I didn't…didn't…"

She broke off and lifted her head to meet Eomer's eye, and in some way he thought she asked for his forgiveness, for his pardon, although whether it was for murdering four men in his country or the shame of her promiscuity he didn't know. He nodded calmly, unjudging, making a silent vow if he ever met this man to do worse on that very spot.

"So I did. and took their things, and hid them in the woods. After you were dead I was going to leave their things out to look like they did it. It would look like they killed Durward, too. I was supposed to meet my handler in Minas Tirith but by now they probably know you're still alive, and they probably think I am dead."

"What are they planning?" He asked with gruff urgency.

She shook her head, pulling apart another piece of turkey and choosing to eat the golden brown, salted skin instead, "I don't know. Something big."

"Don't you want to know why?"

Her voice was indifferent, "I gave up asking why along time ago."

"You know why. Take a guess," Eomer prompted.

Lifting her shoulders again she ventured, "Start a war I suppose, or revenge, but why you and not-"

"Aragorn?" He interjected, using the King of Gondor's given name.

Loti was beginning to feel confused amid the realm of tenuous international relationships and politics.

"Isn't Gondor more of a threat than Rohan?"

Eomer's mouth twisted derisively, "You would think."

His new secretary smoothed her frizzy bangs behind an ear with greasy fingers, an arched eyebrow furrowed in puzzlement, "I don't understand."

"Gondor is weak. Their army is not much better. Their councilors bicker amongst themselves, vie for power and favor with Aragorn… Some that had influence with the Stewards no longer find favor with the King and question his place and rights to the throne. Their lands, farms, business, and crops are devastated. Gondor exists very near the edge of political, military and social collapse. The transition of power in Gondor has been peaceful, but I wouldn't necessarily call it smooth or easy."

Eomer snorted resentfully, but there was no arrogance in his voice. "Gondor is a kingdom of politicians and bureaucracy. Fiefdoms, princes, councilors… They all have their own agendas and they're all trying to get their piece of the whole."

He took another sip from their shared bottle, and continued on, meditatively. "My people have no doubt about whom their leader is. The Rohirrim has lost nearly a quarter of its men, families and lands have been destroyed, villages burned, our horses stolen, but they never have cause to question Rohan's leadership; there's no bitching or struggling for power. Unlike Gondor, we're one country, one people united by who we are. But what happens if Rohan loses that strength of leadership? What happens if Gondor is weakened by war and politics? If Gondor and Rohan turn on each other, if we are distracted from the job at hand, how easy would it be for Harad and our other enemies to invade and overpower us both? If I'm dead there would be a void of power in Rohan, and there are many who would make claims to our land, both friends and enemies.

"Who will defend Gondor if I'm gone? Rohan is a superpower now whether we like it or not. We can no longer find safety in isolation. My enemies find me dangerous because I'm powerful. And I'm powerful because of my policies, my allies and the loyalty of my people. That's why the Haradrim want me dead, although, I'm sure they're not the only ones. I think some of it is revenge for what happened, but that's only just part of it.

Do you understand?"

Loti processed all that he had said. If she had succeeded in killing Eomer and implicating Gondor's involvement, the Rohirrim, the proud, fierce and stubborn people they are, would have gone to war with Gondor, distracting both countries and leaving them open to attack by enemies both foreign and domestic.

"I had no idea it was so complicated. They underestimate you," she said, recalling that she had also.

"Those that do will learn to regret it," he replied coldly, picking up several berries but smiled slyly, "You would have been the girl that brought down the world."

She flushed again, and dropped her head to hide her discomfort. So brazen at times, like a wolf caught in a chicken coop, and yet so shy at others she seemed almost paralyzed by the fear that accompanied it. Eomer hoped one day she would be able to leave her past and anything that may have happened and find some sort of happiness. He stifled an urge to touch her hand in reassurance.

Instead he changed the subject, "So tell me about Harad's people. What should we expect?"

"It's not like here."

"So I guessed," he concurred dryly, watching her pick through the plate of meat, finding another piece of greasy, crispy turkey skin and crunch on it appreciatively.

But she did go on, her appetite not diminished by the serious discussions.

"Only men have rights. Women have none. They are only property and can be bought and sold if their man permits it." She spoke distantly, as if she was not a woman, as if she had never been a Southron.

"That's slavery," his disgust for such practices more than evident.

"That's the culture of Harad," she disagreed, "It's been that way forever. Do you want to argue or do you want me to answer your question?"

Her feistiness was returning unmitigated. Sucking on a strawberry, Eomer waved a hand for her to continue the lesson.

"Most of Harad is made up of clans. People that hold a common family ancestry or background belong to the clan and the clans all have chieftains and their own hierarchy within the clan. Every member of the clan must swear loyalty to the tribe and its chieftain. Each clan has their own lands and territories, kind of like a small kingdom. Some families are allies and some are enemies and some," she paused to quench her thirst with the whiskey, "are whatever they want to be on any given day. Some Haradrim clans are peaceful but most are not. All the clans or tribes or whatever you want to call them have their own specific colors and dress to give them their own identity, but they all share a common heritage and traditions. That's what keeps them unified even when one family hates another."

She went on talking, uninterrupted, her animated ramblings building a foundation for their newly discovered rapport. If she wasn't becoming more accustomed to him then the drink had done the trick in loosening her up.

"Each tribe has its own, sort of mini army, and contributes men to a larger force if the chieftains agree to go to war."

"Wait. Stop," Eomer broke in without warning, "What clan do you belong to?"

Loti wiped her glossy face on the linen sleeve of her shirt.

"I don't belong to any clan," she said as though he should have known this all along, "I'm from Umbar. It's different," and made little sucking noises as she licked her salted fingertips.

"Why?"

"It's really a lot different from the rest of Harad. It's more cosmopolitan, more culturally diverse. No one family controls Umbar. The Corsairs do, but piracy is only a small part of what happens in port. Most of what goes on is legitimate shipping and trade. There're lots of warehouses on the docks. Lots of merchants and lots of trade mean lots of money. Piracy is only a means to an end. It's just part of the culture."

Finally, Loti sat back, a dainty little burp escaping her lips, feeling fuller than she had been in years and wrapped her arms around her bloated belly.

With out warning, Eomer stood, and came around the desk to stand next to her chair. He extended a hand, palm up, "You're tired. You should sleep. We can talk more later."

She felt a bit wary, if only from the drink, but accepted his offer of assistant, placing her slender hand in his, big as a leopards paw. Eomer drew Loti to her feet with gentlemanly grace, but did not let go. Instead, his eyes focused on their linked hands. His head was bent in humility; a few strands of wavy, sun bleached hair came untucked from behind his ear as he stroked his thumb lightly over the back of her hand, tracing the delicate ridges of the metacarpals.

"I hope… I hope I haven't hurt you badly," he began apologetically, "If I have, I'm sorry. I should've shown more restraint. It will never happen again. I would ask for your forgiveness. Please."

It occurred to her that he didn't just want her forgiveness. He needed it. Did he think what he had done so terrible that he couldn't forgive himself, when in fact, it was she who had provoked him; disregarded his rules and warnings which were only for her own protection. She had known worse cruelty. She was a piece of property in her own country, to be owned, ordered about. It had never mattered what she thought or felt. He was a King, he should be blaming her, but he didn't. He asked to be forgiven.

"If it would make you feel better."

He said softly, "It would."

"Only if you forgive me for the tooth," she quipped dryly.

She could see him prodding the vacated area with his tongue.

"Forgiven. And you?"

Loti tried looking as indifferent as possible but the consuming warmth of his touch left her feeling as weak and boneless as a starfish, "It is forgotten."

His clear blue eyes met hers, so dark in the firelight they were almost black.

How she ached to be in his arms then, to be secure and protected against his chest in a crushing embrace. To feel the love and respect of a man that had been missing her entire life. She would have given him anything just then, anything at all. But his words were forbidding. _I should've shown more restraint. It will never happen again._ They were a vow he would not break. They would never be anything more than they were right now.

And what were they now? Only time would yield the answer to that question.

He dropped her hand slowly, letting her fingers slide through his own, and turned, walking to the chest again. There was more rummaging inside the chest as Eomer piled several items into his arms. Only when he faced her did Loti realize the items were hers. He shoved them haphazardly into her waiting arms; her black leather coat, boots and satchel. Turning again he picked her sword out of the wooden chest. Surely, he wasn't going to let her have a weapon?

It was a short sword, but heavy, and she wasn't able to effectively wield it with any great force except with two hands. Eomer must have realized this as he bore it from its sheath because he hefted the steel's weight a few times, squinted censoriously at it, slid it back in its casing, and dropped it with a clank back in the trunk.

"You know how to use a weapon?" he asked dubiously.

Loti nodded soundlessly, feeling dazed.

"You'll need a new one," he decided grumpily, "It's too heavy and unbalanced for you. It's made for power. You're built for speed."

The book of poetry lay on the desk top. She had been too afraid of his wrathful temper to be bold enough to reclaim it, but as he spoke, he picked it up and laid it on top of the other jumbled items in her arms.

"You may begin your duties tomorrow. Remember, you are one of us." Eomer said professionally, and with tight lips, nodded curtly, dismissing her, "You are free to go."

He presented his back to her and began the process of removing his armor. Loti moved to the doorway, but stopped just before exiting.

"Wait," she said, the wheels of her mind beginning to spin again, "What sort of job will I have in your household? In Aldburg?"

He shrugged, his face as noncommittal as always, "I can always use another good maid."

"Maid!"

"Keeping my home clean isn't important enough for you? Or maybe you'd rather the royal bed warmer?" There was the start of a teasing smirk forming on his face. "Good night," he dismissed again, more firmly.

"Good night," she paused for an instant and tossed her head, "My Lord."

Loti snaked out of the doorway into the darkness of the night. There were no night sounds; no crickets or frogs, no rustling of wind in the trees or coyotes barking in the distance. There were, however, men sounds; a hoot of laughter, a snore nearby, a good natured argument far away about one mans wife and the size of another man's cock, coughing, scratching, the shuffling footsteps of someone coming back from taking a piss.

She felt detached, like her mind was half floating away from her body. Perhaps it was delusion, perhaps the whiskey, or shock, or bliss or all of them together.

There was another sound, the clang of armor, and Eothain materialized around the corner.

"What do we have here?" He asked, wiping away beads of sweat trickling down his face.

What did he think she was doing out here? Would he think she was trying to escape again?

"He, ah, he-," Loti sounded uncertain.

One of Eothain's ruddy blonde eyebrows quirked up.

She tried once more, shifting the bundle in her hands, "He let me go."

"Did he give you the 'you are one of us now' speech?"

His voice was almost a whisper as he bent to speak confidentially and she gave him a look of incredulity.

"Yes! He did!"

Brightening, Eothain straightened, grinned, winked knowingly, gave her a bump on the shoulder that nearly tipped her over, and then swaggered off. Apparently, Eomer knew what he was doing the whole time! An overpowering urge to march back into the tent and give Eomer a good tongue lashing swept over her, but even the thought of another go around with him was exhausting. Sleep was an activity that required much less effort.

Loti found the most comfortable patch of hard, dry ground she could by the fire, rolled the leather coat into a ball under her head and drifted away under the cloudless sky dotted with pinpricks of light.

Morning came too soon, and Loti woke to the early dawning of the sky bathed in streaks of pink and orange, lavender and crimson. She stretched languorously, clasping her hands behind her head. Today would be her first day of freedom with the Rohirrrim, but she knew, surely, it would not be her last. A small flutter of anxiety tickled her belly and chest. But it was a different kind of anxiety, one without fear. It was a more a feeling of energy, of anticipation, of excitement of things to come, a want please her new master. She giggled in the half light of the morning. Eomer, the gigantic brute, likely would lay an egg if he heard her call him that.

_Well, that's enough laying around_, she thought, remembering _her master_ was an early riser, _I should make myself useful. _

Reaching a hand into the satchel, she pulled out the hairbrush, looking a little worse for wear as somehow the handle had broken off, and spent a few minutes detangling the unwashed tresses.

She was stinky. But there was no reason to impress similarly smelly, greasy, and grimy barbarians with washed hair and clean clothes so Eomer's complaints over her unattended ablutions would have to wait.

What could she do for him this morning? Something useful and productive… Something that showed initiative. Something that would show she could earn her keep, to show she wouldn't be a burden. Something that would make his day a little bit easier. Across the camp there was an echo of whickering horses greeting the dawn and Loti tugged on her boots, an idea forming.

Firefoot, the great beast, was excited to see her, as he always was, and scraped an antsy hoof on the dusty ground like a bull about to charge while making snotty snorting noises through his flared nostrils.

"Easy, boy," she giggled, plucking a leather bag of oats hanging from a tree.

In his eagerness for grain and attention, Firefoot waggled his head and yanked against his tether. Loti reached for the bridle to steady him, but he paid her no mind and with an erratic toss of his elongated head, the metal bit caught her with a _thunk_ near the temple. She dropped the bag, clutching her head, staggering backwards. He was spoiled and wanted his oats now. The gray velvety nose and mouth rootled into the opening of the bag and quickly snuffled the grain to the bottom.

"Darn you," she muttered, but the bloody beast lazily swished his tail at diving flies, not giving a damn.

Still rubbing her stinging head, she thought maybe Eomer was right. Firefoot could be dangerous, at least where his breakfast was concerned.

Loti gave up and began looking for Eomer's saddle amid the rows of saddles lined nearby. Finding it took less time than she thought. It was well broken in and the brown leather was aged and worn black from years of riding. Getting the saddle over the half ton animal took _more_ time than she thought since Firefoot was tall, the saddle hefty, and she neither of these things. But after some persistence, several cumbersome hoists, a lot of grumbling, a few curses, and absolutely no help from the most mulish beast she had ever known, Loti was able to finish the saddling and led him to Eomer's tent.

Firefoot was nuzzling her affectionately, possibly sniffing for another edible treat, when Eomer emerged from his quarters.

"What the hell is this?" he asked perturbed as she grinned proudly.

"I thought I'd get him ready for you," she beamed.

"Ghaw, girl," he scolded, adroitly snatching the reigns out of her hand, "You're my secretary, not my slave. I thought you knew that. You think I can't saddle my own damn horse?"

Firefoot's head thumped against Eomer's chest and then his large drooling horse lips stretched out for a bit of hair nibbling, perhaps mistaking his blonde strands for straw, Loti thought whimsically.

It was now Firefoot's turn for scolding, "You stay out of this," and he shoved the animal's head away testily. "This isn't one of your duties and I didn't ask you to do it."

"I'm sorry," she pleaded, "I thought-"

"I know what you thought," he snapped.

He watched her face fall. The energy in her eyes disappeared, covered by those feathery black eyelashes. Oh, gods, was she going to cry?

"I'm sorry, my lord. It won't happen again," she said stiffly.

Eomer watched as she took her leave of him. Where were his manners? She was only trying to be kind, helpful. She didn't know any better. He hadn't even told her what her duties would be!

_Ah!_ He mentally threw his hands up with his intolerance.

She stopped when he spoke, but didn't turn around, "But, thank you."

She did look back then, her pink lips curved into a sheepish smile, "You're welcome, my lord."

She saw a fleeting twitch of displeasure cross his forehead at the use of his formal title, and she corrected, "Eomer."


	8. Chapter 8 The Road Goes Ever On

Author's Note: I hope you will learn a bit more about the characters in this chapter.

I have also done the two cardinal sins of romance writing in this chapter. But you know, I don't want to write formulated romance, like julie garwood. I like men who are men and women who are women. I want flaws and angst and struggle. I want them to be human. I think the hero and heroine are more relatible that way.

Review of any kind= giggles, smiles, encouragement and big thank yous! LOL!

What happens at the end of this chapter will be more clear in the begining of the next...

Thanks again!

* * *

"For a girl, I still can't believe how bad you smell," Eomer told her later that same morning.

"What," Loti snapped, "would you like me to do about it?"

"Wash," he stated, attempting to hold back a smile and doing a very poor job of it.

She let out a trying sigh, "Ha ha."

_Fine time for him to become a comedian_, she grumbled inwardly.

They rode the oat fattened Firefoot peacefully, more or less, as a hot, muggy breeze rushed past their compressed bodies, doing nothing to clear the haze out of the mostly sunny skies. She hadn't told Eomer about the incident with the grain bag, partially because he would have been furious, so his mount received a double helping of oats for breakfast and pranced merrily down the road. Firefoot, thankfully, also failed to mention this indiscretion.

Eomer hung back from the rest of the group this morning though, staying within sight in case of danger, but far enough away to give them some privacy.

"Why do you wear these?" He asked, plucking at her grimy pants.

"What do you mean why? Have you ever worn a dress? I'd say pants are much more practical."

"Yah," he said like a common ruffian, looking over her shoulder, "but every man on earth can see your…you know."

"No, I don't know. You mean my legs or my bum?" Loti leaned back against him to better see what he was looking at, and found his eyes cast downward, "Oh, you mean my-"

"Uh-huh," he finished brusquely.

Tipping in the saddle to see his face, she lacked any modesty in asking, "Don't you like being able to see my-"

She thought he turned red, but it was hard to tell if it was embarrassment or just a very bad sunburn. He was so easily pricked; sometimes it was difficult to resist a jab here or there.

He immediately interrupted, obviously not wanting to discuss what else was revealed when a woman wore pants, "It's not appropriate for women to wear pants, and you won't do it when you work in my household. And don't let my sister see you in those or I'll never hear the end of it." He sounded as though he were a trifle agitated about something.

"Are you going to make me stop wearing them?" There was a bit of a challenging tone in her voice.

Resignedly, he admitted, "No."

"Is that why we're riding two hundred yards away from everybody else? So you can give me advice on my choice of fashion?"

She heard a grumbling noise coming from the back of his throat. "We should talk," he suggested with an incredible lack of feeling.

"Talk about what?" She was attempting to braid one pony tail but the wind was causing some recalcitrant strands of hair to elude her, making it nearly impossible to do a proper job.

"Your duties and your place in the Rohirrim."

"Mmm," Loti said, futilely trying to recapture some errant, wind bourn hairs with her little finger, "Is this about this morning?"

His left hand was slack on the reigns and the right hand rested on his hip, keeping the beast out of the grassy ditch only by the squeezing of his thighs. "I don't expect you to do anything for me that's outside your regular duties. You're an equal in the Rohirrim. You're not a slave or a servant." Eomer ended with a twist of his mouth. "Well, not yet anyway."

Dropping the finished braid to her chest, she squirmed to be able to catch a glimpse of his face, "Why don't you get a squire? Don't most lords here have squires too?"

Looking into her face reprovingly, he explained, "There's a big difference between being the lord's secretary and the lord's squire. A nobleman's secretary is a smart man. It's a great honor to be chosen for that duty. A squire is just another royal ass kisser working his way up the ranks to knighthood. He does the menial physical tasks for his lord."

None of the meaning of his explanation was lost on Loti, although she had no idea he had given her such a prestigious rank among men.

A little perplexed, she asked, "Don't you want one?"

"A squire? Does it look like I need one? My arms aren't broken."

"Haven't you ever had one?"

Eomer laughed, tight lipped, "You really don't know anything about me, do you?"

Loti didn't like the presumptuous arrogance in his voice and tried reasserting control of the conversation.

"So what are these," she flitted her hands and fingers in the air, "duties?"

He squinted, narrowing his eyes against the blazing sun.

"Your main duty will be correspondence; writing letters and orders to my officers. Encoding and decoding classified reports. Keeping the daily report log, taking dictation, following up to see that my orders were carried out, that kind of thing. Then any translating or interpreting that needs to be done, especially if it's sensitive or needs to be kept quite. You're able to keep your mouth shut aren't you?"

At that moment, Loti herself was feeling rather pricked, "Of course I can. I gave you my word. I'm no traitor."

"You're not?"

She could feel a little fire start to burn in her belly from that suggestion, "No. I'm not! And you didn't leave me a lot of choice in the matter, either," then gave him a poke with her elbow in his armor covered ribs.

"Good," he decided satisfactorily, "Because I execute traitors."

"Anything else you want to tell me?" She honestly believed he would droll on all day if she let him, expounding on the importance of her duties. His work seemed to be the main reason for his existence.

He nodded and paused for a second, speaking sincerely. "You're not a soldier. You're a woman. When I ask you to do something it's a request, not an order, but I do expect you to obey it. I need your word that you'll listen. It's for your own protection, Loti. Do you understand?"

Yes, she did understand. She was a member of his household and he took responsibility for her welfare. She was seriously beginning to question what she knew about this man. Was there any evil at all in his heart? How strange, that it was Eomer of Rohan who gave her feelings of safety and stability. It felt so good to know she was cared for; to know that she was protected and secure. Had she ever know security and protection, even as a child? She felt lifted on a wave, and inhaled a deep, carefree breath, letting all her tensions be carried out to sea.

She turned back to him wearing her best whatever-you-ask-of-me face. A few beads of sweat ran in a ragged, wet streak along his temple, and his beard was beginning to shine with perspiration. Loti resisted the urge to wipe his face, thinking her King may not find the gesture appropriate.

"I understand. I'll try," and she patted him good naturedly over the armored steel apron covering his thigh. His thighs were like rock, and she wondered why she hadn't noticed before.

_Probably because you were more worried about a different rock hard part of his anatomy_, she concluded, still rattled over their intimate knowledge of each other.

"There are some things that I won't be able to tell you or discuss with you. There's some information that only I should know."

"Like what?" She casually prodded, thinking that keeping secrets in her capacity as his secretary might be downright impossible.

"Nothing you need to know, nosey."

Loti changed the subject back to something more interesting, "Didn't you have a secretary back home you could've brought?"

"I did," he admitted somberly, "He's dead. He caught a fever over the winter, so Eothain's been doing it the last few months."

"Eothain can read? Sheesh! I didn't know Eothain was capable of doing anything other than telling dirty stories!" She joked.

"You'd be surprised. He's not what he seems."

There was a tiny snort from the back of her throat and a hand hid her smile. Eothain exhibited virtually no self restraint when it came to cursing, lewd behavior, crude jokes and inappropriate stories. No animal, mineral, or vegetable seemed immune from his tastelessness. A slanted grin eventually crossed Eomer's lips, too.

"Alright, maybe he is what he seems."

Any remaining strain between them eased with their shared laughter. Loti liked the sound of Eomer's laugh. It was a low, sort of rumbling chuckle, like the sound of thunder far off in the distance and she could feel his body drain of its tension at the suggestion of his friends raucous behavior.

He wore half of his gold streaked hair tied back into a braid, while the rest fell loose, plastered in wet tangles to his neck. Her heart, she realized, was beating arrhythmically. Was it wrong to find her lord so lustfully handsome? There was a thick male scent about him she would have found repulsive on other men. But this morning, mixed with the earthiness of grain and freshness of salty ocean water on the southern winds, for some strange reason, she found his aroma wildly erotic.

"Um…" she began wanting to be distracted from the floating in her chest and the pulsing warmth between her spread legs, "Who are all these men then?"

Eomer loosened the matted wet hairs from his sunburned neck with a forefinger. "The older men are members of my guard, mostly from Edoras. The younger ones are from all over the Riddermark and need experience."

Loti had noticed the disparity in ages amongst the one hundred men she rode with, but most did appear to be her own age if not younger. Although, she thought it was hard to tell the ages of the older men. They had all lived hard lives, and their faces bore the weariness and toil of scratching out a meager existence in the Mark. Some were battle scared, or had young faces prematurely lined with age, others had blackened or missing teeth from poor nutrition, and many, even those that Loti thought were only in their middle thirty years of life had streaks of white in their fair hair. But all had one common trait, one thread that held them together, a bind that ran deeper than just mere camaraderie. They shared the blood of the Rohirrim; a long and proud history of men and women who loved their horses and a barren, windswept stretch of land. She realized then there was one more thing these men had in common; a deep respect and unwavering love of their king.

Suddenly, Loti's chest filled with pride and, almost inconceivably, her heart with hope. She too would share in their customs and find a place within her adopted people someday. And maybe, just maybe, if fate and luck were on her side, her blood might mix with the blood of a Rohirric man and their child would become a brave and fearless warrior in the service of Rohan and EomerKing. It was a blissfully optimistic thought and she leaned her head against his shoulder, looking up at him, sidelong, with daydream slackened eyes.

"But why do you have to go? I'm sure you have men who could do this work for you."

"I lead by example," he said, clipped.

"Does everyone fight for you? I've heard stories about women who go to battle with the men."

She received a hefty scowl for that remark as he cast his eyes down. "Women don't belong in battle. I don't allow it, so don't go getting any ideas."

Scowling in return, she countered with, "I didn't have any ideas! I'd heard your sister is one of those, ah…what are they called?"

"Shieldmaidens," he did not sound pleased at all. In fact he sounded grim and sickened, "She thought she was."

Loti pushed away from his torso with a "tsk"-ing noise and offered him some well deserved criticism, "You're just as pig headed as southern men when it comes to women."

That comment didn't sit well with her riding partner, and he grabbed Loti's face as she tried to twist away, cupping her chin, and squishing her cheeks with his fingers. He awkwardly forced her to look directly into his eyes as he re-educated her on the difference between Rohirric and Haradric men.

"Southrons treat woman as slaves and property. I treat women with respect and kindness. They send a girl to her death for no other reason than she has become a burden. I take that same girl and offer her my home and my protection. Women don't go to war because it's a man's duty to protect her."

Eomer was more than emphatic in his lecture, he was downright angry and she wasn't all pleased with the tight grip on her cheeks. Loti laid a hand on his arm and shoved, his fingertips slipping from her face. Her voice was contradictory and heated when she spoke.

"Why can't women. They have the same reasons to fight as you do. Maybe even more!"

He grasped her face again, this time his fingers pressed into the soft flesh behind her jaw, below the ear.

"A woman sacrifices to give a man a home and a family. A man sacrifices his body to keep his home and family safe. Don't you ever forget it."

"You're a boar!"

"I'm a man," Eomer retorted, the muscles of his jaw taught from controlling his anger, "And I'll do whatever it takes to protect the women I care for."

"Does that include me?" She demanded crossly.

He swallowed, but didn't answer. His fleckless, icy blue eyes stayed fixed on her face.

Loti asked again, this time stressing every word, "Does that include me?"

"What do you think?" He calmly avoided the query.

She shoved his hand away again and scooted away from him like he was crawling with lice. The man was so infuriatingly vague sometimes. "Ooo! I think you're impossible."

They rode for quite a while in silence, just the two of them, alone, sweating and baking in the southern sun. For a man who wanted privacy to talk, he suddenly wasn't very talkative. Eomer didn't really seem like he ever wanted to talk that much. Perhaps he meant for this to be a time to vent her frustrations about her treatment or captivity. But, now, there was nothing she could do about that, so she sat quietly on his lap.

Letting Loti brood seemed like the best way to let the girl reign in her temper. Eomer wanted to be alone with her, to learn about the woman he would be spending many long hours with, and to eliminate any of the awkwardness that was part of getting to know someone, but how hard was it to admit that he did care? Why were those words, 'yes, I do' so confusing and painfully arduous to say to any woman? He hadn't felt this way around a woman in years; speechless, uncomfortable, and nervous. What was worse, he didn't know _why_ he felt these things. The truth was he hadn't spent long periods of time with any woman other than his sister. Now that they had privacy and time to adjust to one another's constant presence, he didn't know how to start a conversation. He was like a tongue tied teenage boy lusting after an older girl. Women, he concluded, really _were_ easier to manage one night at a time.

He glanced to the side trying to hide a growing smirk even from himself. "Pissed at me already?"

"Yes!" She piped in, "You only treat me as a friend when you need something."

"We are not friends."

"Good," she said and crossed her arms in deadlock. Discussions, as far as she was concerned, were finished.

"Are you pouting?" He asked, goadingly.

"I don't pout!" Loti cried.

Eomer let her temper cool before for a few moments before chancing more questions.

"How are your hands?"

She flipped them over in her lap. "Fine. The salve the healer used helped."

It was clear she wasn't interested in talking and there was another pause.

"What's the weather going to be like down there?"

"Hot," she answered coolly, "And then hot and wet."

He was a conversational failure. The art of small talk was lost on him and his mother would be disappointed over that worldly and courtly necessity. He was as accomplished at making light conversation as a pile of horse manure. Probably worse! Just another reason, he considered, why Gondorian nobles considered him an unrefined rustic. He was a lot like his uncle in that way; up front, straightforward, to the point. He didn't have time for idle bullshit chit chat, but, damn it, today he was going to make time.

"You ever seen snow?"

"Snow?" That one word grabbed her attention and she swiveled around to meet him face to face. "Only on the tops of the mountains. Why? Does it snow in the Riddermark?"  
Her face showed excitement but her voice held a tinge of apprehension at the thought of white, fluffy stuff.

"Yah, it does, or at least it used to. Last year we only got a couple of feet, but-"  
Loti stopped him mid sentence in surprise, "Feet! How cold does it have to be to snow?"

Lifting his shoulders indeterminately, Eomer mused, "Pretty cold. Sometimes it's hard to know when it's going to snow. It's gray and cloudy most of the winter, but if a big storm is coming, it'll get damp and windy. A blizzard can drop a couple feet of snow over night."

She seemed genuinely fascinated, if only because her mouth hung open in disbelief, so he continued on, assuming she found the topic interesting.

"In the really strong snowstorms there'll be thunder and lightining."

At that thought, her eyes narrowed into dubious half moon shaped slits. "Now you're just playing a joke on me."

He smiled. The girl really did think he was joking.

"No, I'm not," he smirked, shaking his head in protest, "Those are the bad storms when you'll get a lot of snow in a short time. But it's not the snow you have to worry about so much. It's the wind. When the wind blows real hard and it's real cold, your skin will freeze and can turn black. Won't take very long, either. It's called frostbite and you mostly get it on your toes or ears or fingers. If it's bad enough you can lose whatever's been bitten."

Appalled at losing a body part to temperature change, Loti asked, "Have you ever had frostbite?"

"Oh, sure," he admitted, casually, "About six years ago I had it pretty bad on my toes. Chasing a band of orcs on foot across a marsh, I broke through the ice and my boots were soaking wet. Hurt something awful, like stinging and throbbing. Still got all of them, though."

"Doesn't sound so great with all that cold and snow…What's there to do besides stay inside?"

"There's lots of things to do. Lots of fun ways to stay warm, too." Eomer intimated, with a wink and a smile.

Near midday, Eomer spurred up to join the rest of his guard, and they shared a simple midday meal of dried apples and venison jerky. Not a single soul even bothered to bat an eyelash when they saw Loti freely floating in Eomer's wake that morning and, as they rode slowly under the rays of hot sun, his men spoke easily and without reservation in her presence with the knowledge she was no longer a threat. She was flattered by the attention she received as each member of Eomer's guard seemed thrilled at a chance to regale a new audience with old, worn out stories. The Rohirrim were most certainly story tellers, and she listened intently to tales about horses, battles, legends and even a brief Rohirric history lesson before talk inevitably turned to family. Eothain, who Loti thought was the best and most animated storyteller, was busy giving his friend a hard time and reliving childhood events.

Eothain was laughing heartily, "Remember that time you dared your sister to ride her horse through the middle of town?" There was some reverberating laughter, an indication that some of these men were familiar with or participated in this story. To Loti he explained, "It wasn't that simple, mind you. He dared her to ride it full gallop through the street standing bareback. Remember that mare of hers? Ghaw, that animal was mean, and barely broken!"

Digging into a small pouch, he pinched some loose black stuff and tucked it in his lip until it bulged. "Anyways, she was always tagging along after us saying how she was going to be the best horseman and the fastest rider... Even better than the men! So, this one," he gestured with his thumb at Eomer, "says girls can't ride better than the men and their place it to have food ready when the men come home. Then he starts teasing her, poking at her saying she's just a girl and she's too afraid. Well, she always did have a wild streak and too much pride that's proper for a girl, so she kicks off her shoes and could barely climb up that horse and goes racing down the street like a shot arrow. She couldn't have been more than, what, seven? But that's not the best part," Eothain left off, pausing dramatically in the middle of the story to turn his head and spit out a particularly nasty shade of brown.

"No?"

"No! His ma is in the market and sees his sister standing on that horse riding hell for leather through the streets. Your ma was always so prim and proper," he observed, showing a fondness and respect for Eomer's mother, "but she had one mighty wicked temper. She ran after her all red in the face, screaming she was going to break her neck, and cursing like a demon with her skirts hiked up around her knees. Gods, we laughed so hard, his ma caused such a scene in public. She was in so much trouble!"

"Not as much as when my father found out I put her up to it," Eomer interjected with a reminiscing smile.

"What happened then?" Loti asked. She liked hearing these childhood stories, feeling as it somehow made up for her own lost and dysfunctional youth.

"My mother dragged my sister home for a beating, and I came home later. My father didn't think she did it on her own even though she was always getting into trouble. She was always such a stubborn thing. He asked if I knew why she did it and I said no, I didn't know anything about it. Then he asked if I teased her into it, and I said no again. So he told me he was going to beat her and I was going to have to watch so I could learn a lesson too."

"You didn't let him do it did you?" Loti sucked in a breath, turning so she could see his face in the retelling of the tale. Eomer was red with sunburn and his hair damp from a good dousing of water.

"No, I couldn't let my father do it when it was all my idea. So when I stopped him, he said he was proud that I hadn't let my sister take the blame for something that was my doing, but now he was going to have to beat _me _for what I did to Eowyn _and _for lying."

"How did he do it?" She was interested to know how Rohirric fathers or any father disciplined their children since her experience was very limited.

"Took me out to the stables and bent me over the paddock rail. He always beat us with a leather strap."

Loti's eyebrows shot up at the thought of proud and powerful Eomer, with his britches pooled around his ankles, bare arsed, awaiting his punishment.

A cajoling remark came from somewhere behind them, and although Loti didn't catch the teasing, Eomer smiled crookedly, and tossed back, "Ghaw, I was only eleven, man! I had to do all her chores for a month, too," he added.

"Did it hurt," she nearly giggled in asking.

He shrugged; "It wasn't as bad as you'd think," and then he leaned in, like he was going to tell her something strictly confidential, "It was worse. I don't think my ass has ever hurt that bad. Couldn't ride for a week!"

"Whatever happened to your sister? She didn't get a beating?"

"Oh, no. She got one too. For riding the horse. Mother wanted her to have a lesson in humility."

There was laughter over this comment and Eothain put in, "A whole months worth of beatings couldn't teach her that!"

Loti careened her head so she could see Eomer. "Will I ever get to meet her?"

"I hope not," he spoke evenly, as he liked to when he knew she was looking at him, "The two of you together would be my death."

"Oh, come on, they're not that bad," Eothain diplomatically argued, "Eowyn's gotten a lot better."

"Not much," she heard from a man behind them, and there seemed to be mass agreement on that comment.

"What's she like?" Loti prompted, wondering what a woman so closely related to Eomer would be like.

Eothain immediately piped up before anyone else could answer. "Oh, these two are defiantly cut from the same mold! They're both bossy, and stubborn, and reckless. But that Eowyn," he inhaled a loud breath through his teeth.

Something happened to Eomer, Loti realized, when his sister's name crossed his friend's lips. She could feel his hackles rise, and saw the knuckles on his ungloved hand grip the reigns until they were furiously white, then release, grip, then release. A cough and a few throats being uncomfortably cleared didn't deter Eothain from continuing.

"I hope that dandy, Faramir, realizes what he's got. She always smells like spring flowers and hay. And those thick thighs, and that broad, soft ass that nestles right down over your-"

Eomer's reaction was a growling snap, "Don't say another fucking word or you'll lose a month's pay. Explain that to the wife."

Waving away the chastising, Eothain offered with a devilsh smile, "Aw, I didn't mean nothing by it. You know that." He winked at Loti.

Eomer didn't reply, but the reaction to his friends teasing was unusually harsh. Eothain's words had meant something; obviously to Eomer they had. It was not a response she would have expected two men who acted like brothers to exchange. Surely, it was just the reaction of a protective older brother and she was sure Castamir would have done the same for his sister. But still, something was happening between the two, something everyone else knew but would dare not speak of, especially around Eomer.

Afternoon was waning when, as usual, the group stopped at a deep, clear creek to water the horses. Clouds hung in puffs across the sky and the opaque summer haze still floated along the horizon. Loti was holding Firefoot's bridle near the shore, receiving a series of wet, lip flapping kisses to her cheek, and a few inconsiderate hair nibbles while Eomer knelt, filling canteens and pouring water over the back of his neck.

"Ah, um…E," she began, sheepishly trying out his informal name as he approached, swaggering confidently to stop opposite her, on the other side of Firefoot, "Why, ah…why did you think I was married?"

He took a drink from the canteen and offered her the same, which she accepted.

Considering, he answered the question with a question. "Who else would have written the book?"

Loti touched the canteen to her lips, gratefully quenching her thirst and washing the road dust from her lips. Eomer was inconspicuously brushing his hand along his mount's sweat gleaming neck.

"Who wrote it then? Your lover?" he growled severely.

She handed the canteen back and he looped it around the pommel, and then busied himself with tightening the saddle's girth after flipping up the stirrup.

"My father wrote it for my mother. My mother gave it to me when-" Loti broke off suddenly. He could never understand what she had lived through, and if he knew, he would forever treat her differently. For Eomer, to know what had happened to one of his own would be far less difficult than anything his imagination might conjure up.

Raising his eyes, but not his head from his work, he studied her under his brows. "When what?"

The words fumbled in her mouth, "When, ah, no…it was before she died, when she gave it to me." She didn't want to begin a relationship with this man like she had with so many others; with lies and deceit.

A dismal attempt at a laugh came out more like a fake giggle, "Why do you keep thinking I have a man?"

"You said every woman has a man. Who is your man?" he inquired bluntly.

She was nervous, he noticed, watching her pat Firefoot as he fidgeted with and towered over the saddle. Her large, almond shaped eyes were hidden beneath those seductive, long, black lashes. His eyes flicked up to her again.

"Your man, he sent you here didn't he?"

Eomer already knew the answer. Her man had hurt or abused her, made such a dove-like creature see and do things he did not want to comprehend. He thought he understood her a little better now; what motivated her, the fear he had seen, why she did what she did. Something terrible had happened to her and it ate away his stomach to know he could do nothing about it. He would have to add her man to a growing list of sleaze bags on his shit list.

Finished with adjusting the girth, he flipped the stirrup down and leaned his arms across the horse's back. His husky voice filled with compassion and curiosity when he spoke. "Whatever happened to your father?"

She slid a hand absent mindedly over Firefoot's dark gray forehead, and breathed out heavily. "My mother, she was a whore. She almost never spoke of him, so I don't know anything about him. Maybe he was a client of hers; maybe that's how they met. My mother didn't talk much about the past, but I think he was a good man, and I think they were very much in love. Mother was very sad all the time, like something was wrong in her head, and liked the drink too much. I don't know if losing my father was the reason. I'm not even sure if he's dead or just gone," her eyes were filled with loneliness when she raised her face to meet his, "I think things would have been different."

He shook his head, meditatively. How different would his life have been if his own father had lived? Or, for that matter, his foster father? He certainly wouldn't have lived his most recent days in turmoil and upheaval with a girl who was barely over five feet tall, thin as a fence post and had caused him to have an erection so painfully hard it was indecent! The urge to put his arm around her shoulders in a tenderhearted embrace returned. She was too strong for that though, and, gods forbid, he should feel the wrath of her injured pride again if she mistook his sympathy for pity. What she needed was his empathy.

"We're not so different, you and me. We're a lot more alike than you think."

Eomer nudged himself away from the horse, letting his arms slide off the seat of the saddle. She watched as he turned to leave and quickly ducked under the horse's head. He was several paces away before she found the courage to speak once more.

"Ah…wait! Can I ask another question?"

Stopping and turning back to face her, he placed a hand on the pommel of his sword, and looking impatient, nodded.

"Did…did you mean it?" He looked confused, with an eyebrow lifted, a sign that her question needed clarification. Raising her chin, Loti hoped to appear stronger than a watered down cup of tea. "That you were sorry for hurting me? Did you mean it?"

"I don't waste words on things I don't mean, girl."

"What about this," she asked, brushing her fingers over the scar that marred the corner of her mouth, "Are you sorry about this, too?"

A few quick strides brought him to her, and Eomer took hold of her chin with an index finger and thumb, angling her face to see the tiny scar set white against her golden skin. Two lines formed between his eyebrows and he squinted critically. "It's barely noticeable."

"I can see it," she stated, and listened as he blew out an annoyed breath.

_Fuck me_, he thought, lingering on and absorbing every detail of a perfect beauty that could only have been bestowed on her by the Valar. She made his heart race like no other woman he had ever known. _Only a fool wouldn't want her._

Without thinking he smoothed a thumb over her lips. Smooth, full, and softly edged under the tough pad of his thumb, he recalled they tasted like apples or raspberry wine; tart and sweet at the same time. She made no attempt to move as he gingerly stroked the tiny scar. Did she really think it made her flawed? Yes, of course she did, but he didn't think so. It only made her more beautiful, more perfect, and more mysterious. He knew she wanted to hear that she was still attractive, that the scar didn't detract from her handsomeness. But he didn't want to tell her, he wanted to show her; to urgently press his mouth to hers again, part her lips, touch her slick, soft tongue with his own and taste her strawberry tinted lips, to be one with her in that way, because he could not allow himself to be one with her in the other way.

He was hypnotized.

He was also the fool.

Eomer pulled back with a mildly choleric "Mmphf," when he realized what he was doing, and walked in the direction of the road, nickering for his mount to follow.

"Well?" Loti called after his rapidly disappearing backside.

"You're not going to get an answer standing back there, are you?" He snapped in return, gesturing with an agitated finger for her to take her place by his side.

She ran after him, a satisfying hitch in her step.

XXX

It was virtually impossible to find Eomer's saddle in the early morning dark. The heavy, misty fog wasn't helping either, as she climbed and over and stepped around the canvas covered saddles. It was like being inside a wet ball of cotton. As she continued looking for Eomer's saddle and the oatmeal soap taking up residence in the saddlebag, Loti reconsidered refusing to bathe with the other men the day before.

Scouts found a stream that pooled into a large pond some distance into the woods. Nearly every man took the opportunity to wash clothes and themselves, as she discovered on one of many trips to and from the camp while helping the younger soldiers bring the horses to water. She had never seen so many blindingly white male backsides in one place before! If it was possible to die of mortification, she thought she might just do so then and there. When several bare naked Horse Lords heard and saw her giggling uncontrollably, she received some friendly heckles, a few catcalls, any number of invitations to join them for swim, private or otherwise, and two humorous, testicle grabbing proposals of marriage from already married men. So, after returning to the camp located in a clearing by the road, Loti gave up the hope of bathing, and instead took it upon herself to wash Eomer's clothes, which consisted of three white cotton shirts, two pairs of britches and the simple linen pants. She was on the receiving end of a hot scolding when Eomer returned to find his laundry washed and hanging to dry and the scolding disintegrated into a full blown argument that left both of them too angry to return to the pond so she could have a proper washing. But this morning, not dark or fog or plagues of locusts would keep her from cleansing off the accumulating layers of filth gathering daily on her body.

A few more minutes of diligent searching found her lord's saddle and the oatmeal soap. She had already located a square of linen fabric to use as a towel and taken the bar of lye soap for washing her clothes. Now Loti followed the trail through the dark, well trodden by both horses and men, to the quiet murmuring of the stream and pond. Nothing seemed to be stirring this morning; not even the forest life that could be so obnoxiously loud before dawn. After arriving, she slid out of her clothes without fear of being seen and began the process of scrubbing dirt, rinsing soap, and wringing water from her clothes. She hung the clean shirt and pants over a low hanging branch and finally turned to wash herself. The refreshing cool spring waters lapped over her thighs and belly and breasts like cold silk as she waded deeper then skimmed gracefully through the waters, reaching with long gliding strokes. As she watched the first rays of dawn mottle the fog with shades of rose and orange, Loti imagined this must have been what it felt like to be a nymph, or a fairy, or a mermaid in her mother's fanciful tales. She had always liked to imagine, to dream, to wonder. It had become an escape, a way to hide from the prison of hardship and fear that fate and life seemed all too happy to heap upon her slender shoulders. It was no new revelation that she was cursed. Marked by the Valar or not, somehow, someway, for some unfathomable reason, they had abandoned her to the cruelty of the men who would remain to populate and dominate what was left of Middle earth. So she had turned within, with the help of her father's book, into a realm of happiness and love; a world where she could control her own destiny, while she lived as a slave to the will of another. Dreaming was what kept her alive through endless nights of Fat Fingers lustful gropings, seducing and laying with vile, detestable men, and her own personal tragedies, like the death of Theodred. She often dreamed about him, wondering what it would have been like if she had stayed, if he had lived. What would it be like to touch him again, run her fingers through the wiry curls of hair on his chest, touch her lips to his hot skin, straddle his hips and make love to him? It didn't matter, never mattered, that he was influential, powerful or wealthy. It only mattered that he saw her for who she was, a person with thoughts and hopes and dreams, wants and desires. But Theodred was gone, dead, lost to time, and those dreams, her dreams were held now in the hands of his younger cousin.

Loti dunked her head underwater, rinsing soap and greasy sludge from her dark hair for the second time. She would have to hurry the rest of her ablutions or, when Eomer woke, he would be worried. There were times when he was aloof and easy going, and other times when he was absolutely tyrannical, and wondering off unsupervised, without his permission, into dense forest of Ithillien was probably something that would make him unusually crabby.

_He's such a difficult man to understand_, she thought with some amusement, not for the first time.

Lathering the finely milled soap in her hands, she made a thorough attempt at washing every curve, angle, line, nook and cranny she believed her body possessed. The mists and fog were still dense when she grabbed the linen towel to dry off, and watched as wisps of moisture wafted from the pond's calm waters like smoke from a chimney on a cool morning.

Suddenly, she heard movement; faint noises creeping rapidly through the woods, getting louder, closer, moving nearer in her direction. Not the shuffling of animal sounds either. They were even steps like that of a man. _Or worse_, she thought, _orcs._ She clasped the towel to her body in a futilely defensive gesture. How many were there? One, two? More? There were sounds of twigs snapping under foot, rustling of bushes being thrust aside, the distinctly metallic clamor of armor. Loti swung her head, sopping wet hair circling around her, matting in wet strands to her arms, looking for anything that might be used as a weapon. Whoever, whatever was stalking through the fog and early morning transition from dark to light was getting closer! Loti scuttled a few steps backward closer to the pond. If it was orcs, she could dive into pond and swim to the other side to escape.

She saw the dark, shadowy movement through the curtain of fog and held her breath. Then the shape of the beast stepped from the swirling mists.

It was alarmingly tall, and dangerously strong with frightening eyes that flashed with fury, while the animal clenched a nefarious looking broadsword in its hand. Any moment now she was going to begin trembling from terror as she looked into that monstrously twisted face. Valar's truth! He was going to kill her!

"Don't you ever wander off like that again!" Eomer admonished scathingly, and slipped the sword back in its scabbard. "It's too early in the morning for any of your crap. Let's go."

If he sounded irked or scared or both, it was because he was! He found her palate empty when he woke, but all her belongings still nearby, so he knew she had not run off. After their, as Eothain jested, lover's quarrel, the day before, the pond seemed like the most logical place she had gone, but any number of things could have befallen her whilst wandering alone in the dark and murk.

"You should've come and got me before you came out here all by yourself."

She clutched the wet, flimsy linen fabric to her breasts, while the rest of the cloth draped limply to the ground, revealing more than it hid. Eomer was a man who appreciated the curves of a woman's body, and he could see all of hers now as the new morning sun burned away the fog, lighting her from behind; the bulge of breast, the indent of a slim waistline and flat belly, the long sleek slopes of hip and thigh and calf, and the hard, tight line of inner thigh. If he wasn't a man of honor, nothing would keep him from what was behind that makeshift towel.

"Where're your clothes?" He demanded to know.

"Over there," Loti nodded in the direction of the tree limb where her clothing occasionally sprinkled water on the grasses below, "But they're still wet."

Eomer looked at her dubiously, "What were you planning on wearing?

She hesitated, then inclined her head to retain her dignity, and said coolly, "I…hadn't thought about that yet."

His gaze never wavered from her, but she didn't feel dirty, or violated in her near nudity. No, she realized, it was the opposite. He wasn't eyeing her with contempt for her sex or a greedy need for her body. Eomer, the ignorant bastard, was concerned, and that concern flooded her with warmth. How could she feel pure and unspoiled and hot for his touch? It was an odd combination of feelings, but nearly everything about her current situation and Eomer was baffling.

He made one of those disagreeable noises in his throat that had become a signal for his mild irritation, and started working loose the straps securing his chest plate. Then he yanked the chain mail shirt over his head, dropping it to the ground with a chinking flop.

Loti spluttered fiercely, keeping the cloth pressed to her breasts with one hand while removing his white cotton shirt from her face with the other.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Her voice was pitched high in skepticism.

"Put it on," he directed, "You can wear that until your clothes dry."

Although the prospect of wearing only his shirt seemed as desirable as wearing only the linen towel, arguing with him in his current state of moodiness would be as productive as banging her head against a tree. He was courteous enough to present his back to her so she could pull the garment over her head.

It was a clean shirt, she was thankful for that, and the hem fell to mid thigh while the sleeves were far too long. The straight collar was low around her neck, but so was the u-shaped neck line, which she tied the strings at the top of the scoop to, hopefully, insure some modesty. Loti pinched a handful of the fabric and brought it to her nose. It smelled like him, raw, male, earthy, and still carried the heat of his body.

It was a broad back, she observed, lifting her eyes to spy on him unobtrusively and shaped much like a sinewy upside down triangle. Sharp, mounded muscles of the neck gave way to rounded shoulders, the curve and hollow of tricept and bicept and the bulging of veins in his forearms. The flat, dimpled shoulder blades flanked the valley of his spine protected by two thick strands of muscle on either side. His waist and hips, covered by the apron of metal were tapered and trim; all qualities befitting a man who knew labor, training and war far too well. She noted the many colors of his skin from the pale smoothness of his back to the dark brown leather of his arms, and reddened sunburn of his neck and face. He was a powerful man, but with that incredible power also came a gentleness few men of his strength and status possessed.

As she pulled fastidiously at the shirt, Eomer turned. Her eyes widened to the size of tea cups. Perhaps it had been too dark, or the distance to great, or simply preoccupation that hid it from her sight before now. A sleek white scar wrapped around his body from high above the side of his rib cage and sliced viciously downward to his navel. It was an old slash, clean and fluid, faded with time, but had dug out a noticeable groove from the lean torso. Dozens of questions formed in her mind, about the man, about the injury, but she dare not ask them, not now.

Eomer bent to snatch his items from the ground. "If you're done fucking around, get your things and let's go."

Jerking on her boots, and grabbing her clothes, the soaps, and the linen towel, Loti hastened after Eomer, who had already disappeared down the trampled path through the gray fog. Her short legs and loaded arms made keeping up with him difficult, and, with some annoyance, he was forced to slow his pace. The crunching of the undergrowth beneath their feet was disconcerting in the quiet morning, as they walked without speaking for some distance.

"Ah, um…" Loti broke the tense, uncomfortable hush that hung between them like the fog, as she hopped carefully over a fallen log, "Why has it taken so long for you to come? I mean, to Harad. Why didn't you come earlier?"

Never breaking stride he did at least acknowledge the question with a slight tip of his head. "I had things to do," he replied in the throaty voice he used when didn't want to discuss something. "You never should've come here alone."

"Weren't you the one complaining I smelled bad?" She shrilled excoriatingly, skipping once again to keep up with him, "And I wasn't going to strip naked and bathe with fifty men I don't know, so-"

Eomer clamped a giant hand tightly over her mouth. Loti made muffled protestations behind his hand as he slowly lowered the chest plate and mail shirt to the ground. His blue eyes were wide with alertness as he cocked his head from side to side, and then pressed his forefinger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet. He slowly released his grip on her face, pointed a finger to his ear after removing his hand, and swept it in an all encompassing arc. She heard what his keen ears had detected as she was blathering on about the sensibilities washing privately. Footsteps.

Something was out there!

Loti placed her things on the ground also. They had a very brief but silent argument, both waving their arms in the air like flightless birds, and pointing animatedly about in which direction the sounds came seconds before he hoisted her up without warning, legs around his waist, and spun behind a fat oak tree. She was in his arms so fast, the only choice she had was to throw her arms around his neck, and hold on.

"They're not one of us," he whispered briskly.

"Who are they?" His bearded cheek touched hers, and his breathy whispers and lips tickled and caressed her ear.

"Orcs."

"Orcs!" She repeated in a fervently soft voice, "I thought they only came out in the dark!"

"The fog," he explained, "It's thick and it's blocking the sunlight." His breath came hard and his chest raised hers, pushing into her breasts as it rose and fell heavily. She could feel his hammering heart, and his skin becoming damp as his blood raced to the surface, hot and anxious. He hefted her weight, digging his fingers into her bare backside as he held her with little effort in his arms.

"Can you see anything?"

Loti peered cautiously around the trunk of the tree, finding nothing except the bank of opaque fog that lay like a dark gray blanket throughout the forest.

Hurriedly, Eomer questioned again almost immediately, "Can you see anything?"

"Wait!" She commanded, feeling his body tighten under her hands with the tension equaling that of a bow string. "I can't see anything through the fog. I don't hear them anymore, do you?"

"No, but I don't know how many there are so we're going to stay put for a little bit."

_This is humiliating_, she groused to herself. How many days ago had she tried to kill Eomer, hated him and everything for which he stood? Now, she clawed into his neck like a cat climbing a curtain hoping to the heavens he would save her life! Life had too many quirks sometimes. Her arms tightened their hold around his neck and she rested her cheek next to his in determination to make the best of a bad situation.

Eomer emanated nervousness and she had to know. He was unable to protect or defend their position since he didn't know where the enemy was, of even if the orcs were aware of their presence in the woods. The back of his head thumped against the tree as he relaxed, if only slightly. It was only then, with his senses heightened, did his body react to what his mind registered. Wet hair dripped cold droplets of water on his chest and the ends were starting to dry into that unmanageable frizz he knew all women hated. The smell of her was intoxicating. Under the mild, grain-y tang of oatmeal soap, the natural scent of the girl, spicy and foreign, was seductive and explicitly female. Eomer liked her breasts. They were full, round, youthful, and, Bema's blood, poking into him like knives. He liked them even better pressed to his chest and resented the barrier of cotton fabric that kept them from his hands and mouth. His hands were rather busy cupping and fondling her bare bottom, though, and those same hands kept the apex between her legs firmly positioned to his belly. She had such soft, smooth curls there…

The feel of her was enough to bring a man to the edge of his sanity.

This had to be the worst form of torture imaginable for a man when there wasn't another woman in sight for at least fifty miles! Here was a stunning, nearly naked woman with her legs wrapped around him, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

_Orcs are crawling all over these woods and I'm worried about a stiff cock_, he thought, squelching a sardonic laugh.

"I'm going to put you down now," he said softly.

Loti slid through his rough hands and along his chest and flat belly, lightly covered with course blonde hairs. His palms, large and flat, slipped raspingly over the fair silken skin of her bottom and back until she touched the ground. A small noise that she believed was from dropping his effort escaped his throat as she touched the dirt. The shirt had rucked up, exposing her subtle denuded curves to her waist. An invigorating sizzle devoured her entire body and she felt momentarily weak as his hands lingered an instant too long; catching and keeping her about the waist, holding her against a very large lump in the general region of his groin. The same feeling she had felt the day before when he caressed her lips with this thumb returned. It was a quiver that started in her chest and raced like a lightning strike along her backbone, turning it into shivering jelly. She quickly tugged down the hem, a bright shade of pink glowing on her face, while backing away a step. Trying to avoid his brilliant blue stare, Loti's eyes locked on to the thing, bulging against the laces of his britches. Eomer appeared similarly discomforted as a red hue, that wasn't entirely sunburn, covered his chest, neck and face.

A bit breathlessly, she whispered, "I think it's just a little too much excitement for both of us." Her hand brushed a lock of loose bangs behind her ear nervously. How quickly she had forgotten. Eomer was aroused by danger.

"Mmmm," was the gruff noise he used to cover his embarrassment.

Quietly as possible, he drew his sword, and then secured her protectively against his body with a steady hand on her back. She met his gaze and felt reassured with the confidence reflected in his eyes. Ordinarily, Loti reflected, she might issue a blow to his ego, insisting she was perfectly capable of protecting herself, but the brave, valiant warrior, the protector of his people had risen to the surface. EomerKing would protect her at all costs, or, she had a feeling, die trying.

Sword in hand, he edged sinuously around the tree, listening, looking, and sensing for any sign of the enemy. Finally, when he felt they were safely alone, he stepped tentatively from the protection of the oak. Her guardian's hand drifted down the length of her arm to her fingers, gripping them tenaciously as he led her away from the tree and to the spot where they had dropped their belongings. As she slung her things over her arm, Eomer donned his mail shirt and armor, and, taking Loti by the elbow, hastened from the wood.

Eomer rushed with her back to the encampment, and she was nearly running to keep up with his long strides. She refused the offer to be carried, the insinuation only slightly injuring her pride. Wearing his shirt was a much bigger blow. She felt like a low class whore, enticing men to the enjoyment of their bodily services in nothing but a skimpy shift or a low cut chemise. It had been sometime since she had worn a dress and the cool, moist morning air was erotically tickling as it played pleasurably between her legs and circled her belly and breasts under the billowing shirt, inviting a warm yearning she had rarely ever known.

"What've you two been up to?" Someone shouted out as they reappeared out of the fog and headed towards Eomer's quarters through the small village of tents. That question was followed by "Look at the love birds!," elbow poking, ohs, ahs, one crude gesture, a few excited congratulations, and many other impolite comments directed solely at Eomer. By the time he held back the tent's flap and ushered her inside, Loti was so heated from embarrassment, she wondered if she might burst into flames and catch the tent on fire.

"What's going on here?" Eothain wanted to know as he approached, waggling his eyebrows.

"Orcs," Eomer answered, meeting his friend in several quick steps, "I don't know how many." He looked around at the fog that covered the landscape like uncarded wool, "We should leave as soon as possible."

"You two are getting on, aren't you? When do I get to hear about how she got out of her clothes and into yours?" Eothain thumped his friend in the chest with the back of his hand.

A smile tugged at Eomer's lips. "Use your imagination. I'm sure you can figure it out!"

Inside the tent, after retrieving her possessions, and turning a short piece of discarded rope into a figure flattering belt, Loti went about the impossible task of brushing out her hair. It had matted into brown wet strands and sun streaked tangles. When Eomer returned to the tent a bit later his appraisal was swift and deflating.

"What's that?" He asked, sitting on the edge of his bed with a bowl of what Loti thought looked like chunky, unmoistened oatmeal.

"It's a belt. I think it looks nice," she stated, showing off the creation, and proud of her ingenuity to make even a man's shirt into something presentable. Then she heard that dismissive grumble from the back of his throat as he ate. "I am a girl, or have you forgotten?"

"Girl, huh? If that's what you think," Eomer poked, shoveling in another spoonful of oatmeal. He was the only person she had ever seen that chew his oatmeal.

Calmly, Loti gestured with the brush and told him, "If you're not going to be helpful, you can leave."

Whirling and returning to the job of disentangling snarls from her hair, she heard the bed creak as Eomer stood. _Thank the heavens, he's leaving_, she thought. The last thing she needed was his demotivating hovering and bossiness. Suddenly, the hairbrush was plucked from her fingers. She spun to protest, but he spoke before she could eek out a squeak.

"It's broken," he said, holding it in his palm.

She let out a long breath, forgetting her ear slicing remarks. "Yes. It was old. I suppose it was bound to happen sometime."

Laying a hand on her shoulder, he gently spun her back around.

"What are you doing?" she wanted to know as he gathered all of her hair.

"I have a sister," he began in a dry tone, "She's persistent and pushy. You think I've never brushed hair before?"

He was already picking out the knots, smoothing his hand over and over and over with each stroke of the heavy, damp tresses.

"I think you misunderstood, Eomer. I wasn't suggesting…" she said in a fidgety voice, "I mean you don't have to, I can do it myself."

"Mmhmm, and it'll take half the time if I just do it for you," he volunteered, although not sounding at all interested.

Tears welled in her eyes. No one had brushed out her hair since the day she left home. Loti forgot how good it felt, how relaxing it was, and how it made her scalp prickle, sending a surge of goose bumps peeping across her skin. Eomer would grumble about it later, complain about how much time she was wasting or how she was distracting him from more important endeavors, but this small luxury was a gigantic gesture of acceptance. He was so gentle, not tugging or pulling as he brushed. _This_ was the ruthless barbarian who plundered and raped women and lands? _This_ was the merciless killer who executed her brother? This enormous taciturn brute who willingly offered to brush out a woman's hair… The tightness in her throat and chest ached, from nerves, confusion…

He started dividing her hair in sections. "What are you doing now?" Loti wondered aloud.

"Women of the Riddermark usually wear their hair braided. Isn't that what you want?"

She waited patiently as he finished plaiting her hair and tied it with a length of leather thong. Stepping back, he flipped the tail over her shoulder so she could observe and critique his work. It was an intricate, yet simple weaving.

"Thank you, this is very nice!" She managed to get out while running her hand over the bumpy numbs, admiring his handiwork.

Eomer flattened his lips, nodded once and stated for the entrance, then stopped, looking back. His belly did a flip flop when his eyes drifted to her chest and saw her dark nipples winking at him through the white cotton shirt. Oh, she would kill him alright, if it was possible to die from having all his blood rush into his penis!

"We use that braid all the time. It's very traditional…for horse's tails."

Her face turned purple, which was exactly what he was hoping for.

"I am not your horse!" Loti blurted out.

She was becoming quite docile, he decided. No obscenities came with that shade of purple this time. The shrewish bitch was exhibiting self control, and he felt, almost disappointed about that turn of events. His blue slanted eyes dropped again to those small, round breasts, all perky and pricked with excitement.

_More than a mouthful, less than a handful_, he thought salaciously, licking his lips. Even now he could feel her, hot and wet, sliding over his cock. The real thing was always so much softer and more responsive than a fantasy and his own hand. _But a hand would do in a pinch_, he decided.

"What are you-" she broke off, confused as to why he wasn't looking at her face when he spoke. Then Loti saw what he saw. Her damp hair caused wet rings on the front of the white shirt so that it became transparent and clung to her chest. The nipples stood out tall and dark beneath the material.

She snapped her head up to find him still looking, ogling her like produce in the market. If he were so inclined, he might reach out and give her a speculative squeeze and thump, checking for ripeness.

"These are not melons for you to squeeze and examine!" The words tumbled quickly from her mouth as she lightly cupped her breasts for emphasis.

Eomer frowned. "No, of course not. They're more like oranges. Don't-" was all he managed to get out before the hairbrush clunked against his ear.

Once camp was broken, the pace Eomer set was blistering. He wanted to be out of Ithillien by night fall to avoid any other run ins or possible confrontations with trolling orcs. The day was hot, but overcast, which, maybe, was worse. There was no intense searing sun, but the humidity clung to everything and everyone. It made men, woman, and one particular gray horse any combination of grouchy, testy, dyspeptic or querulous.

Rain was coming. It was in the air, and in the sky. Storms were building over the sea to the south, soon to roar inland and over the steadily marching straggles of the Rohirric army.

The journey to this point had, so far, had been uneventful, except for the small inconvenient skirmishes with the girl, and Eomer was glad for that. It was true, the Harad Road was rough in some spots, and almost nonexistent and over grown in others, but they had not had any direct contact with orcs, thieves, bandits, or any other type of evil creature that roamed lawless and unscrupulously in the dense forest.

They stopped only once, a little after mid day for food, drink, and rest. Eomer watched his men laze about under the trees, while their mounts sought their own respite, grazing aimlessly through the varied Ithilien flora. A flash of white caught the corner of his eye. It was the girl, coming back from whatever she was doing in the trees; probably watering the bushes. She stopped to make light conversation with several of the younger soldiers who recently began doting on her, bringing her extra bits of food to satisfy her enormous appetite, or simply just wanting to make friends. Their recent infatuation with her made Eomer twinge with jealousy and his protective streak flare around the edges, even if they were honorable young men with seemingly innocent intentions. They were still men, and no man's intentions were completely innocent.

Getting her up on the horse in that, he supposed he should call it an outfit now that she had gone to the trouble of making it into something presentable, had been an adventure in awkwardness for them both. But, after she was up, no other problems had arisen. He did try to avoid touching her thighs, nearly impossible when two people were squeezed into a saddle meant for one, and more than once regretted suggesting she wear the shirt while waiting for her clothes to dry as his male parts ached with swelling. Yes, he had wished for an excuse to put his arm around her, or convince her she'd enjoy it if he did more. Maybe he should've acted like the heathen he was accused of being and dragged her from the saddle, tossed her over his shoulder and covered her body with his own if only to satisfy his curiosity. Well, he still had a healthy imagination...

_You are a sad and pathetic man, Eomer, sad and pathetic._

"She gives you a terrible cockstand wearing that thing doesn't she?" Eothain asked, plopping a great paw of a hand down on his shoulder and giving him a good start.

Returning to fussing with the saddle, he answered with a noncommittal, "Mmm."

Eomer turned his head to see her now rummaging for something in one of the wagons, standing on tiptoe, leaning over the back edge. The shirt slithered up, nearly revealing the curved fullness of her behind. Eothain watched also, intrigued by his friend's non answer and fixated stare.

"Why don't you just fuck her tonight and get it over with?"

Eomer broke his gaze away, returning his attention to the damned useless saddle. "I'm not going to fuck her," he snapped.

"Wait," Eothain put a dirty, probing finger in each ear, twisted, removed them and said, "Go ahead, say that again. I thought I heard you say you weren't going to get on her."

"You heard right."

"Wonders never cease! You've become celibate!" Eothain laughed, doubling over, and clutching a hand to his best friend's shoulder for support. "If didn't have all those babies, and a wet old lady ,_ I_ would have fucked her the first night! What's happened? Finally, defect to the other side? You and Faramir will have something in common now! Maybe you'd rather spend your time finding some elf to bugger you up the ass?"

He knew better than to rise to Eothian's teasing, but he was feeling neither receptive nor playful at the moment. "Even if I did take her, you'd be the last one I'd tell about it."

A quick jerk of his shoulder shrugged off the hand.

"Whoa! Aren't you the same drunk bastard who bragged about topping the new chamber maid over Yule when we were up to the tavern?"

"That wasn't my fault," he grumbled, "I was so piss assed drunk when she put her hand down my pants, what was I supposed to do? Let her jerk me off in front of half of Edoras?"

"Oh, I'm sure you cried rape the next morning," Eothain muttered dryly, "Well, if you're not going to lay claim to it, somebody else will be stuffing himself up under those skirts at the first chance."

_Enough already_, he thought.

He knew Eothain was right. She was a beauty any man would die to possess, even if only for one night. But didn't she deserve a proper suitor, and a proper courtship? Not just a quick squeeze and roll in the hay. If he were to provide her dower, and a significant dower it would be, then she would be properly courted… when they returned to Aldburg.

Eothain received the sharp end of his temper. "I better not hear of any man touching her! I told her she would be safe with us and I'm not going to risk losing her as my secretary or as a maid. I don't want to force her to marry a man who got a baby on her. She deserves better than that. If any of them want to court her, they can do it properly, and ask my permission when they get home."

"Alright, alright!" he acquiesced quickly, "I didn't know you felt so strongly about it. Say, this doesn't have anything to do with-"

Eomer broke off his friend's somber question with a sharp, "No. It doesn't have anything to do with them."

Shaking his head apologetically, Eothain, backed off the topic, "Alright, I was just asking, but, you know, Rooster, you're going to have to settle down some time or you're going to be a real lonely man."

He faced his friend, leaning on Firefoot with one arm, drumming his fingers mindlessly on the seat of the saddle while Eothian patted the horse's rump.

"I know."

"I thought you wanted to get married, have babies and all that."

Squinting at a nonexistent something far off in the woods, Eomer admitted, "I do."

"What about that girl from Minas Tirith? Hilde?" Eothain suggested, swatting at Firefoot's distractedly swishing tail.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scratching at a blemish on the saddle, "I'd thought about it. I thought you didn't like her."

"I don't," was his rather brutal matter of fact response, "I don't like any of it… Her, the situation, the position you're in, but, I suppose if you love her-"

"I never said I loved her." His mouth twisted when he spoke.

Eothain's bushy blonde eyebrows shot up, and then realization brightened his rugged, dirty features, "Oh! It's that way is it? You love what she does to you in the sack, huh? Well, take some advice from an older, more experienced man." Eomer smiled, and wiped a dirt encrusted hand across his sweaty brow, looked at it, and wiped it on his thigh, as Eothain puffed up and became his surrogate advisor on all things female, "You can't be laying her every hour of the day. Once she's pumped you dry, you're going to have to talk to her eventually."

"Can you tell me what I'm supposed to do on the wedding night too? Maybe you could stand next to the bed and supervise."

Eothain laughed hardily, "Oh, the girls tell enough stories about you, believe me! Listen, all I'm saying is don't hitch your wagon to hers unless you're certain you love her. Don't let those bastards in Gondor push you into taking the wrong woman to wife. To my mind, they want you to have heirs and spares and not babies. I don't think that's what your mother would've wanted for you."

He smiled weakly; his eyes cast down, as the only slightly older man brushed past him with a fraternal slap on the shoulder, and then boomed loudly at a group of men about removing heads from assholes. Eomer leaned over his mount, an odd ache in his chest, feeling moodily pensive, considering what his companion has said. He trusted the man, valued his opinion, and knew he always had the best of intentions. But it wasn't as simple as that any more. At least, _his_ life wasn't simple any more. The world had changed, his life had changed and they were no longer randy, irresponsible teenagers, or philandering young men. Well, maybe Eothain still was…

But he was feeling the pressure to take a wife. Some like, Aragorn, were more subtle, and others like that lousy Durward were not. His entire adult life had been spent in the protection and defense of his country. He had sacrificed years of his life executing the duties of his father and his father's father. But now, through circumstances out of his control, he was Rohan. And he was the last of his line. He understood Gondor's concerns. Should he just do the deed with the woman and get it over with? Get some babies on her and go about his business? Shouldn't he be willing to sacrifice his own wants and desires, his body and guilty conscious for the future good of his people? Did it make him selfish if that was not what he wanted?

The girl was still at the wagon, stuffing a handful of something in her mouth and chewing industriously, with bloated cheeks. Was she…stealing food? He shook his head mirthfully, a grin curving his lips. Now he knew how she had eaten on her journey north. A little later, in private perhaps, he would have a talk with her about it. Food was there to eat and she was welcome to it at any time.

She did the most peculiar things sometimes. Things he couldn't help but find endearing. Watching surreptitiously, he looked on as she grabbed her clothes from the wagon, checked their current state of dampness, and scampered into the trees to change, her rounded hips swinging back and forth under the drape of his shirt.

She would have to go further in to the tree cover than he might normally like. The forest was thinning, becoming less dense, and the terrain had turned from undulating rolling hills to increasingly flatter terrain much sooner than he expected. They were so close now…

Eomer considered going after Loti, not because he was worried she would run off. He knew she wouldn't, knew it in his gut when she swore it. In his heart, admittedly, he trusted the girl, but she might get herself into another predicament; one where he wouldn't be there to rescue and return her to safety. Moving from behind Firefoot, he jogged to the spot from which she had disappeared into the woods, snaking through the tree trunks until he glimpsed her naked back and narrow waist before popping the black shirt over her head and slithering it down to the top of her hips. Loti turned to him then, giving Eomer a quick reassuring wave. When she came to his side he gently took her elbow and led her back to the horses out of kindness and not necessity as Loti believed.

XXX

He was worried about making camp. The winds were gusting stronger from the south now, moist with the smell of rain, stirring sweet grasses, and sea air. Bubbling, towering clouds floated northbound in the turbulent currents of a gray painted sky that darkened nearly to a black, heavy with rain, at its southern horizon. An occasional echo of thunder could be heard as the storm drew closer and the day grew later and darker.

Eomer was lost to his thoughts, drugged by responsibility and soothed by the regular gait of his horse, an activity that he was rarely allowed. So he was startled when the girl in his lap gasped and whispered his name.

"Oh, Eomer, have you ever…"

The road was lined with trees, abloom in whites and pinks, reds and purples. The branched bowed low, burdened under the weight of the flowering clusters and the winds shook loose the blossoms so they were lost in an ethereal storm of delicate, floating petals. Dancing and falling, twisting and rocking through the air to the ground, they were strewn everywhere, covering the dirt road in a pastel carpet of spring. As far as her eyes could see, the small flowering trees escorted them to their destination. The advancing storm's forbidding shades of navy, tipped with fluffy, bright white and sickly green, only seemed to heighten the sensation of euphoric paradise. She had truly wandered into a dreamland.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she asked breathlessly, hopelessly trying to take in the whole amazing picture.

"Didn't you tell me you came north this same way? "

Loti responded wistfully, "I did, but it was late winter and it didn't look at all like this…" Her voice trailed off in an unfinished explanation, "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!"

"Well," Eomer muttered dourly, "I'm glad you're so easily entertained."

She ignored his sour attitude. Why should he ruin such an exciting thrill with his manly backwards thinking? _He has no appreciation for such things. If it's not weapons, or war, or horses, he doesn't care_, she thought, and felt sorry that he didn't see what she did in the swirl of color surrounding them. It was no wonder he wasn't married.

"I think I might cry." A slim hand moved up to cover a shaky smile.

"Please, don't," he grunted.

Plucking a large white petal, exhausted from its drunken trip through the air from Firefoot's gray mane, Loti rubbed it between her fingertips, savoring its lush velvety texture. She looked down at herself, the black clothing she wore was speckled with petals like a robin's egg. Eomer was also covered in petals when she squirmed in his lap to see him, and she brushed them from his hair as he frowned, tousling it slightly in the process. She plucked a few pink petals that sought rest on his beard from their tumble to earth, giggling under tight lips, and that gestured earned her a smile. Not his handsome toothy grin, but a smile nonetheless. The lines that creased the corners of his soft eyes when he smiled gave him an air of maturity and masculine charm. A giggle bubbled up and she wrinkled her nose when his big hand mussed the petals covering her head. He wasn't so vinegary after all.

It was wide enough here to ride three abreast and a heavyset brown haired man named Eoin appeared beside them similarly covered in the fallen blooms. Eoin, a man with golden brown hair and thick beard, was near to forty years of age, and purportedly, had fathered twelve children.

"Flowers for the lady," he smiled, missing several teeth.

Blushing fiercely and nibbling her lip, Loti hesitantly plucked them from his hand and shoved the cone shaped purple buds under her nose. She had seen the clusters growing higgledy piggledy on huge bushes dispersed intermittently among the line of trees. It was a light but heavy scent, perfumed richly with vanilla and a hint of rose.

"Thank you! They're wonderful, but, what are they?"

"Lilacs," he said helpfully.

"What're you doing giving her flowers, old man? You're still married last I checked," Eomer said, giving the man a good heckling.

"Boy, don't you know nothing about women? They all like flowers. Let's them know you're thinking about them and that you think they're pretty. Why else would the wife let me keep crawling on top of her? It's the best way to get what you want!" Eoin's laugh was loud, wide, and cackling. "We should've tried it my way instead of your way with this wench. You know what they say about vermin, Rooster. You catch more of them with honey. The girl would've been like sweet cream in two days at the most."

"Is that what you call your wife now, old man, vermin?" Eomer questioned with a wry eye.

"Oh, all the good ones have a little bit of shrew in them, boy. It's what keeps us bastards in line!"

Loti smiled at their banter and the other comments rudely inserted into the conversation. They made it so hard for her to dislike them and to believe they committed such cruel atrocities. But they had, hadn't they?

"What's your wife like, Eoin?" She asked curiously as Eomer brushed petals from her shoulders.

Eothain put in quickly, "His wife and mine are sisters."

"That's right. My girl, she ain't much to look at, not like you, but she's a good wife, good with the babes, too. Her father didn't like me so much, but she couldn't hide that swollen belly forever. He made me marry her at sword point the same day he found out. She was ten and six and I was ten and eight. My oldest boy is down here somewhere and we just had number twelve over the winter." He cuffed Eothain in the chest and winked. "Yah, they might not be the best looking lasses, but they were born for making babies."

Eomer leaned forward, whispering an explanation in her ear, "Big tits and wide hips."

Loti twisted to see Eothain, whose wife was pregnant with their fifth. "Don't you want to be there when she has the baby?"

His brow and face scrunched up quickly, "Ghaw, no! Haven't you ever seen a baby born? All that screaming and yelling at me. And the worst part is you can't do nothing for them! Not a damn thing! They've got to do it all on their own, while you're just sitting there, watching, telling them it's going to be alright when they think they're going to die. It's enough to tear a man's heart out! Seeing it once was enough. My big cock has loosened her up, but not enough to push a ten pound baby out that hole. Oh, don't you laugh, Rooster, your time is coming!"

There was general agreement among the crowd on that comment.

"Can you imagine him with babies? Oh, the poor lassie that gets stuck with him is in for a trial," a man called Wolf put in. Wolf was, apparently, not his real name, but a nickname given because he closely resembled the carnivorous creature. Although thickly built through the middle, he was still a young man with a beard and dark hair salted with silvery gray, and eyes that glinted liquid amber. He bared four sharp canine teeth when he smiled. "Get all that rutting out of your system while you can. No wife is going to like waking up next to you and find the milk maid there too! You'll never have any legitimate sons that way."

Aric, a short, thin, well kept blonde haired man threw out a question. "How is it you don't have any bastards?" By the sound of it, Aric had a few of his own.

"It ain't for lack of trying!" Eothain quipped, then made an exclamation as a petal found its way into his mouth.

"Maybe he's got bad seeds!" Wolf suggested loudly.

"Nah," Eoin hypothesized, holding up his baby finger, "Can't get much done when it's only this big!"

Wolf's cackled, "Let's ask the girl. Well, what about it, lass? How big is it really?"

Loti blushed as pink as the petals that fell on her, and swept her eyes over each of the surrounding soldiers. She smiled brightly. As each man boasted of his potency and vigor in bed and his stallion sized appendages, they sat blanketed in pink and white petals, fondly speaking of wives and families left behind. She would be safe, or at least, they would protect her from harm and she was glad to be one of them. Now, by trying to implicate her in the belittling of Eomer's virility, they had accepted her as well, waiting with bated breath for her answer.

Holding a very slender little finger the air, Loti cocked her head from side to side, examining the digit appraisingly.

"Well," she offered finally, "There's a reason it's called a prick, isn't there? Because that's all you feel!" She jiggled her eyes at him and crooked her little finger suggestively.

Wails of laughter were interrupted by Aric demanding, "No, I mean it. How come?"

Eomer, who had endured the cajoling like a man who saw it often, lifted his shoulders noncommittally and replied, "I'm careful."

"Careful?" Aric looked around, his braided tail flopping in disbelief, while the other men laughed at the simplicity of the comment. "Careful he says! If bedding women were titles, you'd be the gods damned King! You'll not suffer any cock rot!" He laughed fitfully at his own joke.

Bursting into giggles again, she exclaimed, "Cock rot?"

"Cock rot. It's what happens when it doesn't get used enough use!" Wolf defined, helpfully swinging his limp hand back and forth.

"Maybe the bees need to stay away from the honeypot," Eomer advised his friend.

"Stay away?" Aric repeated, considering, "No. No, I don't think I could do that. Her honey's too sweet to go anywhere else! I swear, every time we go for a tumble she ends up with a bun in the oven."

Loti frowned in confusion. What did pots of honey and making bread have to do with anything?

"Bun in the oven?" She asked, turning to Eomer for clarification while the others went on with their ribald remarks

The corner of his mouth twitched at her naiveté. "It means she's pregnant."

"Oh. And honeypot?"

His forefinger wiggled at the area in question. "It's, ah, what's between your legs."

"Between my- ooohhh…" Her eyes grew wide, and Eomer winked flirtatiously. "Honey. Pot. I've never heard that before. I've always heard it called-"

"The way you all talk around the lady is disgraceful," said Gram, a homely man with bad teeth, as he bullied his horse through the crowd to Eomer and Loti. The man handed her a twig of dark pink blossoms which she eagerly sniffed and held together with the lilacs.

"Lady?" Eomer gazed down at the load he carried in his lap, "Hmm, I wouldn't go that far."

"You'll have to excuse our leader's behavior. He's ignorant in the ways of chivalry. He doesn't see you for the sweet, beddable-"

Eomer's eyebrow shot up.

"Biddable! Not beddable, you dolt!" came from somewhere behind them.

"Biddable flower that you are," Gram corrected, continuing on unperturbed.

"Gram! What's this all about?" challenged Eoin.

He grinned, wide, and with brown teeth. "I have stockings that need mending. Thought if she had the time…"

A sheet of white flashed overhead, stirring concerns about the weather, and causing the horses to snort.

If they didn't find shelter soon, Gram's socks wouldn't be the only thing in need of mending.

XXX

Eomer threw back the tent flap, reluctantly, again running out into the driving rain_. Where could that girl possibly have gotten off too_, he wondered.

The line of flowering trees marked the end of their travels through the forest of Ithillien. And as the first few splashes of rain fell, the land became a wide rolling prairie of tall grasses and the occasional small stand of small fruit trees. They thought it best to make camp immediately, and the decision was made none too soon. The creep of clouds and night would soon be upon them and, as tents were erected for shelter from the storm and horses tended to, Eomer lost track of his charge.

A flash of light cut the darkness for an instant, but he continued to slog through the squishy ground and wet grass searching for her, checking all of the tents his men occupied. But she wasn't there, so where the devil was she? His feet carried him to the wagons, covered with heavy canvas tarps, and he began lifting each hoping to locate the troublesome girl.

He was relieved to hear his name.

"Eomer?"Loti recognized his boots from beneath the wagon.

She had made herself useful, helping the younger men hobble the horses, and construct makeshift shelters from tarps, rope, and poles for the animal's protection. But when the storm broke and the men scrambled for their tents, she had crawled under the wagon, unsure of what to do or where to go. The cover of the wagon kept out neither the wind nor the rain and she had been shivering for the better part of an hour.

Eomer knelt, ducked his head under the wagon bed, located outline of her body in the dark, and hauled her out by the collar of the leather coat. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he led her at a run back to his quarters.

"What were you doing under there?" He barked once they were both safely inside. Deciding it was obvious what she was doing under there, he corrected, "Don't answer that. Why were you under there?"

"I didn't know where else to go," she explained, sweeping water from the sleeves of her coat.

"You should have come here instead of trying to sleep in the wet and cold under that wagon."

It had been cold, made worse by the fact she was soaked to the skin, as was Eomer, who was busy tying up the tent entrance. The canvas billowed and snapped in the wind, but it was blessedly dry inside. Only one candle wavered its orange and yellow light inside the eight sided tent making the shadows fall long, black and eerie.

Loti shucked off her coat, laying it over a fabric and wood camp chair while Eomer picked up a linen towel from his bed and rubbed it furiously over his dripping hair until it frizzed like a hedgehog.

"Are your clothes wet again?" he asked, walking to the chest full of his everyday possessions. She nodded and he opened the lid, tossing her the shirt she had worn earlier in the day. "Put this back on."

His back safely turned and busy with removing his own garments, Loti peeled off wet shirt, pants and boots, sliding back into the voluminous depths of his shirt. Her companion was not so shy, either that, or he thought she was not looking as he began to pull off his own pants. Having seen and touched enough of his body in the last few days, she decided his bare bottom he could keep, and she whirled. He was probably so used to being in the company of other men, he didn't think twice about stripping naked, but hoped he would put something on to make himself decent.

She realized suddenly, she was chilled and shivered involuntarily, cupping her elbows. The temperature had dropped considerably with the storm, the air was damp, and her skin still slightly wet from her rain soaked clothing. Goosebumps peeped in ripples across her body, quivering the muscles of her belly, raising the hair on her arms and tingling painfully as her nipples tightened to hard, fleshy peaks under the shirt.

"You're cold," came his husky voice from behind and he wrapped a heavy, brown wool blanket around her shoulders, shaking her vigorously as his hands rubbed up and down her arms. "Better?"

Gathering the ends of the blanket more tightly around herself, she raised her head to look into his face. She was no longer cold; in fact she felt a languid, liquid warmth all the way to her toes. If he felt any of the heat that she did, he kept it well hidden.

Oh, yes, she felt much better.

From his bed he took another blanket and spread it on the ground. She stretched out on the crude bed, cocooning herself in the scratchy warmth of the blanket, watching Eomer fastidiously tidy his belongings. He wore the drawstring linen pants, and Loti enjoyed watching the fabric move and flow over his muscular thighs and hard buttocks. Shirtless, he was unashamed, unaware or unconcerned that the ghastly scar cast a frightening shadow across his body. The bed creaked under his weight and he snuffed out the candle he had set beside the bed, casting the tent into darkness.

Loti lay for a while on her back watching the shadow of black above explode into white light and listening to the rhythm of rain on canvas, the rippling of wind over the tents and the rolling of distant thunder. With her own rumble and sigh, she flopped over, and with another sigh, flopped back. Thankfully, she was warm, but now…

"Are you awake? I can't sleep."

A deep "Hmm"-ing noise came from the bed.

She rolled on to her stomach, resting her chin on interlaced fingers. "Tell me about Rohan. What are the people like?"

A flash of lightning lit Eomer, lying on his back, with an arm slung over his eyes.

"I'll tell you something about Rohirric men," he muttered, "Don't bother one when he's trying to sleep."

She harrumphed and flipped back over disagreeably.

Now it was Eomer's turn to sigh. He was more than exhausted, and too exhausted to think of what a word for 'more than exhausted' might be. But he could humor her, this once. He supposed…

"What do you want to know," he acquiesced, grudgingly throwing his arm down next to his side.

"Are my tits really too small?"

_Dear gods! What the-? _He thought, completely off his guard.

Were her tits too small? How did she expect him to answer that?

"Why do you ask?"

She began, sounding less confident and a little more sheepish, "Well, it just seems you all like girls with big chests and I don't, have a big ones, I mean, so I thought maybe in Rohan... I know you like busty girls and you've seen mine, so… It's just that… Since I'm not…"

She was babbling.

This discussion was crossing into dangerous territory. He chose the uncommitted, don't get yourself slapped answer. "You have them. That's all that matters."

"Yes, but-"

Lords! What did she want to hear? That he wanted them to fill his hands again, watch her nipples grow stiff under his touch, swirl the dark nubs with his tongue, bury his face in them, biting and sucking until he exploded inside her? Would that answer her question?

"You think you won't be desirable?"

Hadn't she felt what he had that same morning in the woods? Not just the physical reaction his body had to hers, but that something more he couldn't define or understand. An attraction that started in the physical and ended… somewhere else? Not desirable? Desire was all that was coursing through his veins at the moment, even if that feral desire was purely physical.

"Yours are perfectly fine. Their size is… fine," he admitted, strained.

Loti was pleased, more or less, with this answer, if not confused by his reluctance. A gust of wind bubbled and stretched the tent above as she reached for her satchel next to the crude palate, rootling inside it, and asked, "Did Eothain know what you were going to do when you brought me into your tent that night? Did he know you were going to make me a deal?"

Finding the elusive oatcake she was after, she popped it in her mouth and chewed vigorously. She liked these oatcakes, depending on who made them, and could see why they were a staple of the Rohirric diet. They were quick and easy to make, portable and filling, especially if rolled with bacon, cheese or eggs.

The bed made a creak and she could hear Eomer fumbling with the tinder box to relight the candle.

"Are you stealing food?" he demanded, setting the candle aflame again.

Loti stuffed the remaining cake in her mouth, making it impossible to answer, and if she couldn't answer, she couldn't lie.

"If you're hungry, ask. You don't have to steal your own share of the food," he told her dropping back onto the bed. "And yes, I discuss everything with Eothain when I can. I've known him my whole life."

Rolling over to look at him as he lay in bed, she said, "How did you get to be friends?"

"We've always been friends. Since we were real little. His father served in my father's eored. His father was a bookkeeper by trade," he added.

There was a pause in the conversation and both listened to the sounds of the storm as the candle's flame wavered in a draft.

"Are you warm enough?" He asked, rolling his head to see her bundled in the blanket, lying with her cheek on folded arms.

"Hmm," she replied contentedly.

"About how much longer before we get there?"

"Oh," Loti said, complacently shrugging her shoulders, "If we ride hard, late tomorrow, or the next day."

Another momentary lapse in the conversation allowed the angry couple of thunder and lightning to have their say. Flicking her eyes up, they rested on her tent mate, lying on his back, staring blankly up, with one hand flung over his head and the other on his chest, drumming restlessly on his sternum.

"Is it true what they say about you?" she prodded.

He cocked his head to see her, looking ever the devil and rogue. It was that roguish glint in his eye that always made her heart float.

"What is it that they say about me?"

"That you are cruel and bad-tempered. That you rape women, kill children and drag their bodies behind your horse. You leave a path of destruction in your wake. You're drunk on power and ambition, so you killed your family for your own gain. Oh, and that you cut the hearts from your enemies and eat them?"

Narrowing his eyes, Eomer sniffed and rolled his head away, chuckling to himself. "What else do they say about me?" he prompted softly, his suspicions growing.

Loti answered swiftly, boldly stating, "That you have horns, red eyes, a tail, hooves for feet, a heart of volcanic rock, drink blood instead of ale, and enjoy fucking the unsuspecting farm animal here or there."

He grinned, wide and brilliantly white even in the candlelight, with crinkled soft eyes, black as onyx.

"Is that all?" His voice was low, and teasing. "That's not so bad. I've heard worse. But what do you think? Is what they say about me true?"

Loti twisted her face, carefully considering. "Maybe not the blood drinking and the goat fucking, but the ill tempered part is true."

His smile flashed again, and Loti bit her lip, catching the smile and a giggle between her teeth as she melted like candle wax from the warmth of those dark eyes. How many countless others had bent to the heat in that gaze? Did he even know he possessed that innocent look of seduction which could turn even the coldest fishwife hot? Wasn't it she who was the seductress, the temptress? How much longer could she hold out before he stoked her sparks of flame into a roaring fire; turning their physical passions into an engulfing inferno, consuming them bodily and completely. She did not want to endure this burning alone. Yet, still, she slept on the ground, and not in his bed.

"I won't complain," he said, "Bad tempered is better than ass fucking barbarian."

Unexpectedly, her mouth opened in an indelicate yawn and her eyelids drooped heavily. Eomer abruptly turned his attention to the tent's rippling roof.

"How did you come to this life?" he wondered, softly and seriously. There were a few moments of silence in which he thought the din of wind and rain made the question inaudible. And after some seconds, he hoped she hadn't heard it, because part of him wasn't sure if he was ready to know. But she had heard and said drowsily, as if from a far away, "There will always be things we cannot tell each other, and that is one of those things."

"You know why I had to do it. There was no other way."

"Yes, I know why," she breathed in a whisper. What he spoke of needed no further explanation."I've already forgiven you. Go to sleep now, E."

Her heart felt hollow and pained. She wanted to tell him, to finally tell someone how she hurt and had been hurt. But for Eomer to know would mean he would pity her, and she didn't want his pity. She wanted respect, appreciation, consideration, his understanding and friendship. She wanted more.

He watched her for a long, long time, sleeping with her cheek on her hands, making the most feminine chuffing and snoring sounds. Her hair was rain frazzled and tousled, and she looked irreparability rumpled. But hell…

_But hell what?_ He thought irritated. _There's nothing you can do but look until you're ready to give what you cannot give right now. So, go to sleep and dream of other wenches. _

He reached down and snuffed out the candle.

XXX

His dreams woke him in the still darkness of early morning; dreams of her wearing his shirt, of high breasts, rounded and sharply tipped, and of watching her crawl over his body to meet him in the most ancient of acts. It was a dream that made his penis taught, throbbing hard against his belly, and left him in a maddening need to forget the visions of an imaginary lust. He stared up into the black above, and with a sigh, touched the leg of the woman next to him in his bed. She rolled onto her back, long, dark curls spilling over the pillow, making a sound of enjoyment as his hand traced lightly along the inside of her thigh. His fingertips found her hot and slick with urgency as he explored the soft flesh beneath the tuft of curls and she opened willingly to his touch. Drawing her under him, Eomer buried his face in the thick locks of her hair, inhaling her flowery sweetness and fiercely grinding his need into her belly. He had to have this woman! Now! Again! He wanted this woman he had no attachment to, so he could forget the woman he had bound to his service. All of his eagerness overcame thought, and he was glad they were not able to see each other in the dark. He kissed her lips hard, driving his tongue into her mouth and took her harder, groaning, his anxiety easing as he entered the depths of her soft warmth. She had no option but to accept him, give him what he needed. He forced his cock deeper, spreading her wider, violating her body and soul to achieve his own pleasure…and to deny his desire for another. A moan escaped her lips. Eomer felt himself tightening, becoming harder, and he thrust with more greed, driving towards his release. She was panting and moaning, but if her cries were from her pain he didn't care. The only pleasure he cared about this time was his own. Their bodies were slick with sweat, lubricating the rising and falling of their joining. He raised her hips, allowing her to know him fully, wildly pounding and plunging himself into her tender slipperiness, desperately trying to reach something deep inside her body before he felt the crazed deliriousness of his ending. Then he cried out, the rush of passion filling him, his muscles hard with expectation. The woman beneath him held him tighter with her arms and legs tangling and capturing his hips. She begged to feel his intensity, the warmth that would flow out of him and into her and arched her back, pressing her soft breasts and prickling nipples into his chest. Eomer ripped himself away, shaking and convulsing, groaning into the slender hollow of her neck as his cock quivered, spilling himself against her belly.

It was several moments before he relaxed and rolled off her, his body hot, wet and sticky from sweat and seed and exertion. She nuzzled against his body demanding to be held. Eomer wished she would leave him be; to exalt in his conquest and his wretchedness. But she had given him the use of her body, a body he had taken his pleasure in, so out of gratitude and obligation he gathered her in his arms. The musky scent that a man and woman create in their lust hung in the air, and the girl made little sighs of pleasure as he stroked the length of her back and down the slope of her hip.

He lay awake for a time, staring up into the nothingness of his tent, his cravings satisfied, his balls empty, but the want in his heart unfulfilled. Would it be any different with the girl from his dream? Would she bring him anything more than the fulfillment of his animalistic lusting if he took her as a lover? Eomer looked down at the dark, indistinguishable figure next to him, spent from his use.

No, it was likely she would not.

A/n : Sorry this chapter was super long! LOL!


	9. Chapter 9 One Fine Day

A/N: Hello again! Thanks for reading. This chapter got out of control but it really all belonged in one so I left it. You'll see more of Eomer's history and motivations. As always I appreciate reviews especially well thought out constructive ones, but I'm fond of non constructive ones too as long as they are not flames, so click the review bar at the bottom of the page. I hope you enjoy reading it, cause, boy, it was hard to write!

* * *

Loti threw back the tent flap.

Where was Eomer, that bloody barbarian bastard?

Finding him in this hotbed of activity would not be easy and she had work to do. And so did he! It just wasn't like him to shrink from his responsibilities.

Eomer saw fit to personally sign all correspondences, missives, memo, receipts and anything else that needed his approval. His signature comprised of a large calligraphic E followed neatly by K of M or sometimes just EK or even E depending on whom he was addressing. There was another reason he needed a secretary so badly he chose an ex-patriot Southron who tried to kill him; he wrote like a sickly hen pecking idly at seeds in the dirt. The scribbled sheets of paper he handed her were, well, scribblings. His handwriting was virtually illegible and required a tricky eye along with patience and a nagging tongue to eventually decipher the cryptic scrawling. Her own mother would have rapped her knuckles with a wooden spoon if she had displayed such carelessness. It wasn't that he couldn't or didn't know how to write, but did it in such a hurried manner that even he had difficulty deciphering the words that flowed so quickly and easily from his thoughts, and consequently, his hand could not keep up. His answers on these occasions when she thrust the sheets of paper under his nose for decoding were always wrinkled brows, squints, and grunts.

"Have you seen Eomer?" Loti asked, grabbing the arm of a Rohirric soldier as they passed each other along the main path between the tents.

He nodded. "Saw him go that way," the man pointed west, "oh, over and hour ago."

She smiled gratefully at the man and went on looking for her mysteriously missing King of the Mark.

The encampments at the Crossing of the Poros, aptly named since it was were the Harad Road crossed the River Poros, was a sprawling tent city straddling the endless southern roadway on the northern bank of the river. On the southern bank lay a good size town inhabited by a peaceful, if eclectic, mix of Gondorians and Haradrim. Tall grasses, high plains and few trees made it an ideal spot for the Rohirrim and their beloved horses. In addition to the twenty five hundred Rohirric warriors, Gondor's contribution to protection of the Crossing was another twenty five hundred men and all lay under the command of a giant named Elfhelm.

"It's good to see you, Rooster! Who's this then?" Elfhelm had boomed, greeting them after their arrival a few days earlier, and glimpsing her bobbing behind Eomer like a rowboat in the wake of a galleon. "Finally got yourself a mistress then, huh?" He continued on in a deep, gargling voice after pulling back from a manly back slapping embrace with his young lord, smiling and laughing. His northern accent was so slurred and guttural she had to listen closely to understand anything the man said. Eomer looked sheepish as his longtime companion shook him jovially by the shoulders and patted him on the cheek like he was still a young lad. "I was starting to get worried about you. Thought you might turn out more like your cousin than your father, or maybe like that fellow, Legalos. You never know now days. A bit off he is. I don't like the way he looks at the lads, if you know what I mean. I say, you got yourself a pretty little sparrow here! A little small in the ass for you though, don't you think?" And with a toss of his head, Elfhelm laughed uproariously.

Her face wrinkled, surreptitiously rubbing her hand over her small, but perky backside.

The Marshal of the East Mark looked like a barrel with arms and legs, Loti thought, standing back a few feet, watching as the pair became reacquainted. Standing only an inch or two shorter that Eomer, Elfhelm was built like a limestone wall through the torso. His reddish brown hair was neatly queued back, and his beard, sporting a few slivery gray patches that gave away his real age of perhaps fifty, was meticulously trimmed and groomed. Green eyes, a rounded nose too small for his large rounded face, polished, gleaming armor and sliver studs in his earlobes completed the man. Her overall impression was that of seafaring scallywag rather than Horse Lord. In his day, she supposed, Elfhelm would have been a handsome and formidable warrior.

"She's not my mistress."

"You brought her for me then!" he said excitedly, gripping a sweaty Eomer's shoulder over the leather pauldrons. "I always did like the petite ones! It's been so long I'm not even sure I remember how to service a lady, but I'm sure I'll manage just the same!"

Eomer frowned at Loti, turned back to Elfhelm and said succinctly, "She's my assistant."

"Oh! Is that what you call it now? To each man goes their own."

"She's my secretary," Eomer replied dryly and impatiently waggled his fingers for her to come forward for introductions, "Don't be backwards, girl. Get over here and introduce yourself."

"Secretary? What happened to the other one? Old what's his name?"

"Dead."

"Dead?" repeated Elfhelm, waggling thick brows at Eomer, "Well, my dear, I must say you're much more pleasant to look at than old what's his name. Name's Elfhelm, your servant, madam."

"Loti," she said, extending a hand, which Elfhelm took and, with the utmost dignity, pressed to his lips. She blushed at his gallant flattery, pinkening all the way to her toes.

Squinting, and then straightening, the barrel dug an elbow into the rooster's ribs, observing, "She's got a bit of elf in her, eh? You know what they say about them she-elves? You've done well, my boy."

Loti picked at the brown spot above her lip, scratching herself. What was said about she-elves?

"Come along, my dear girl, and you can tell me all about your misadventures with this fiendish bastard." He chivalrously tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and began escorted her though the camp. She looked over her shoulder to see Eomer, neither smiling nor frowning. "Did you tell her why you didn't come sooner, Rooster?" He leaned sideways, speaking confidentially, "It was because of his sister. Too much like her mother, that girl is. Defiant!"

She looked again at Eomer, who was now walking at his Marshal's side, still expressionless.

"She ran off to be with that Gondorian lover of hers just before winter set in. Fit to be tied he was. Did you get all that worked out then? Finally get a wedding date set?"

"She's not his lover," growled the king.

"Oh, you know as well as I do she's giving it to him. She didn't run off to be with him because of his money or his power. She had all that at home. It's his hairy body she's after, boy!"

Making a discontented noise, Eomer changed the subject. "How have things been here?"

Elfhelm gave a casual shrug. "Oh, not so bad here. Quiet. You'll see more action were you're going though. Dangerous place it is down there. I've already sent five hundred of our boys and five hundred of Gondor's ahead of you to lay out a base camp and establish relations with the locals. There'll still be work to do. Keep the Rohirrim that are already down there, but send back those Gondorians so I can bust their balls some more, eh?"

Loti listened politely to the conversation as they strolled lazily. Elfhelm gave advice and opinions and more often than not, orders. Nodding intently, Eomer heard and rarely argued. The man was rather bossy, Loti decided. She was beginning to wonder which man was the king and which was the captain when she realized at some point Eomer probably _had_ taken orders from Elfhelm.

He handed Loti over to Eomer, ostensibly ending the conversation. "Come back for supper and bring the pretty sparrow. She's much easier on the eyes and the stomach than you are, anyway. Oh, and Rooster," he added as an aside, watching them walk off together, his stentorian voice carrying through the camp like leaves blown by the wind, "Stay away from the whores that wander through here. I think you could do better if you stayed a might closer to home."

"Well he seems nice," she commented, returning with Eomer, back to his quarters.

"Mmhmm."

"Worldly isn't he?"

"Yah," he answered, "He did a lot of traveling when he was younger."

"He's not married?"

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "No," he said regrettably, "His wife was killed by Dunlendings. It was a raid on their village. He has two sets of twins, though, plus another son and daughter."

"Why do you let him order you around like that?" she asked, eagerly wanting to know.

She saw hesitation in his expression, but also the subtle clues that said he would eventually answer.

"I was young when my folks died," he began haltingly, in that odd way of starting a story that doesn't answer the question at hand, "My uncle took my sister and me to Edoras. I was just fourteen when he allowed me to formally train to become a soldier, and when I was sixteen I got to join the garrison at Edoras. I was never a page or a squire and I didn't want to be. I wanted to be a soldier and earn my rank, like my father did. If I stayed with the Muster of Edoras I could be a soldier right away. Anyway," Eomer shrugged one shoulder in an unmagisterial manner, and stopped talking as they met a group of men on the path, "I was put under Elfhelm's command. This was before he took over a garrison commander. He was hard on me, harder on me than anyone else, and, damn it, I hated him for it. He used to beat me across the back with the flat of his sword when I cocked off at the mouth or if he thought I wasn't trying hard enough or if I was late to muster. He'd never call me by my name, either. He'd call me that brat from Aldburg or, Eomund's brat or the son of the bitch. I hated when he'd call me those so I'd run off at the mouth some more and end up face down in the dirt with a welted back or with a fat lip and a black eye. And I could never seem to stop cocking off at the mouth."

"So you are human after all," Loti noted, dryly.

The corner of his mouth slanted up into a crooked, playful smile as he veered off the main path, taking a short cut back to his quarters. "If you think he looks big now, he looked even bigger when I was sixteen."

They were walking past a corral or horses and he slowed to a stop, leaning pensively against the split rail fencing. Here was the Rohirric storyteller; the part of him he rarely ever showed but was as much a part of him as his eye color or his height. Loti watched closely as he scratched a pregnant mare's back, recalling the past. "When I was twenty I went back to Aldburg to take over for-" he broke off, turning his attention to the horses, "To be lord there. I understand now why he did it; to toughen me up. He knew one day I'd take over for my father and he wanted me to be a man who could be counted on. A leader. Probably thought he could beat some of the hot head out of me too while he was at it. He treated me more like a son than a soldier, the older I got. I think he felt sorry for me… about my father, I mean. But I still think he thinks of me as a teenager. He doesn't really expect me to follow his orders. They're more of a suggestion."

Leaning an arm over the rail, she waited, sensing he was going to continue. "Just before the War, my cousin and I relied heavily on him, since my uncle wasn't fit for command. He let my sister ride with him to…" He glanced at her cautiously out of the corner of his eye, "To the Pelennor. Gods, I don't know why he did it! He told me later, once we knew she would be alright, that he knew it was her and had looked the other way. If I hadn't been so tired, I would have flogged him myself!" He exclaimed. "If she…"

He stopped himself from finishing the rest of his thought and his eyes, sensitive and burdened, held hers.

"You love your sister very much."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Her heart panged for both of their losses. She was about to offer a few words of comfort or reassurance when his eyes broke from hers and he was suddenly stiff, pushing away from the fence, dissolving whatever tenderness and compassion had grown between them in those few brief seconds.

She felt perplexed in remembrance of that moment as he had shared with her a little piece of his soul. It was just another of the many layers of mystery and complications that made up Eomer of Rohan. And she did desperately wish she could peel away those layers to find and understand the man beneath.

_What luck_, she thought, spotting Eothain standing off the path, gossiping and snacking on oatcakes with another man. Bored men were far worse than women when it came to gossiping and sticking their noses in other people's business, and this was certainly the case with the men of this camp, especially Eothain. If there was ever someone or something she needed to know, Eothain was the one to consult.

"Have you seen Eomer?" She interrupted, hands on her hips and feeling her agitation spread to her face.

"Yah, he's out there," Said Eothain with a mouthful, tilting his head between the clusters of tents into the grasslands beyond the camp. Spinning on her heel she marched off in the direction of the head bob with him hot on her tail.

"Where are you going?" He called.

"What's he doing all the way out there? There's a rider waiting to return to Minas Tirith and he has to finish looking over everything before I can send him back," She rushed, her voice sounding clearly annoyed.

"The messenger can wait, just leave the man be."

Eothian almost crashed into her, she stopped so abruptly. "What in Valar's name is he doing out there?"

Her brows creased as she glared impatiently up at him, crossing her arms, waiting for a response. If Eothain wasn't sweating from the heat, he would be soon from the hot, challenging stare boring holes into his chest.

He sighed. "He's, ah," he frowned and then made the token Rohirric noise to fill the tense silence as he scratched underneath his chin. In his current state of mangy dishevelment, it probably meant lice, and she took a step back. "He's taking care of some, ah, personal business."

Loti threw her hands in the air before gesturing into the distance, exclaiming, "He went all the way out there to take a piss?"

He caught her arm as she whirled to leave. "Wait!"

"What?" Loti drawled, anxious to retrieve her King and his ever important signature.

"He's not taking a leak. You see that mound out there?" Eothain pointed to the slope of a low rolling hillside. She followed his gnarled finger and nodded. "He's paying his respects."

Her face swirled back to his, brown braids flying and face wide in surprise. "Respects? To who?"

"To family," he kindly pointed out, "His great great uncles are buried here."

"Buried? Here?" she echoed, "But why would they be buried here?"

Eothain huffed out a long breath, determined to inform her in traditional Rohirric form; by way of story. "You're new here so I guess I'll have to be the one to tell you. The boys that are buried there in that barrow, they're twins, Folcred and Fastred. They're our King Folcwine's oldest boys. They died here protecting the crossing from the Haradrim that were trying to invade Gondor. Since they died defending the crossing, they're buried here to always watch over it. The twins, they had a younger brother, Fengel, who became the king instead and Fengel is Eomer's great grandfather on his mother's side. Rooster ain't ever been outside of the Mark but a handful of times, so he's never seen it." One eyebrow lifted, questioningly. "He never mentioned anything about it?"

It was now Loti's turn to make the throaty noise, successfully wriggling her arm out of his grasp. "No."

The tall grasses rolled and waved in the light spring breeze as she stalked out to find Eomer, fluttering and twitching about her knees like laundry hung out the dry. She stopped briefly to shade her eyes from the afternoon sun. From her vantage point in the low hills, she could see the river below, rays of sunlight burning on the surface, the tiny dancing ripples indicative of the waters perpetual and inevitable journey towards the sea. Fishing vessels cut adroitly through the water, laden with their nightly procurements to be sold at dockside markets by discerning fish mongers and barges, without the advantages of steering, earned their namesake, drifting clumsily downstream, muscling more agile vessels out of their way. A lone dingy bobbed joyfully, unaware of the surrounding chaos. The town was bustling with activity; people, sounds and smells all making their way over the Poros.

She caught sight of a large depression in the grass some yards away. _Very mannish_, she decided, or ogre-ish or troll-ish but approached hastily in any case.

He was lying on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, nestled innocent and peacefully amongst the greenery, a stalk of seedling grass held in mouth. _Mmm_, she thought, he'd finally done it. He'd turned into a horse.

Her unexpected presence cast a long morning shadow across his face and one steely blue eye opened. "What?" He demanded coolly, snapping the eye shut again.

"Why didn't you tell me where you were going? There's a messenger waiting."

Reluctantly sitting up with a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, he presented her with his back and said simply, "Because."

Irritated by his disappearance and lack acceptable of answers, Loti snipped, "Why do you always have to be so vague?"

Eomer had already gotten to his feet and brushed unhappily past, leading the way back to camp. "Why do you always have to bother me?" He snapped.

"Bother you?" She would have to fight hard to keep her temper in check. "The rest of us are working, there's a rider waiting to return to Minas Tirith with letters from you and your Prince Imrah- whatever, and you're lazing around out here having a nice little nap!"

When he didn't answer, she grabbed at his arm with both hands. Eomer did stop then but flinched at her touch, involuntarily jerking away, a snarl curling the corner of his lips. His eyes stared fixedly over her head as she spoke, standing at attention as though he were trying to block out her words, "Why didn't you tell me about this place? You said you'd teach me about Rohan so I wouldn't feel so out of place. How else am I going to learn?" She was genuinely upset that he had not shared the spot with her, or even mentioned its significance, but hoped she didn't sound to pleading.

Eomer was looking quite handsome this morning, she concluded. Since arriving at the crossing he'd had a proper bath, cleaned his hair and teeth, polished both his leather and steel armor and armaments, and his once dirty, straggly beard was neatly trimmed revealing a thin upper lip and a very kissable, full lower one. He smelled like the manly scent of saddle soap but also faintly of dried alfalfa. But something was defiantly not right with him. In the days since the storm, he had been amiable, even friendly at times, offering her a smile, a wink of approval or a bolstering compliment of her work. But now he was aloof, cold and distant. He snapped at her, and had been mentally absent from their morning discussion. Whatever happened over night had drastically changed his attitude. And something had happened; she could read it in his eyes, the distance in them unmistakable. But what could it possibly be? It was stress maybe, or bad dreams, or-

"Are you alright, Eomer? Did I …did I do something wrong?" She insisted.

Eomer started at this suggestion. Had she done something wrong? No! No, of course she hadn't done anything wrong, but, now knowing she thought she had upset him, stabbed at his conscience. He had tried to abstain from the pleasures of the flesh, but lasted only as long as a young, good-looking, unattached solider far from home could hold out; exactly three days. It didn't matter who the girl was, he'd lain with countless unnamed others in the past, and there would be more in the future. That alone didn't bother him, and never would. What _did_ bother him was his rutting and lustings of the night before. He had envisioned nothing, save his beautiful brown haired assistant. And, to make matters worse, it had not been the first time. He was ashamed and embarrassed to look at Loti, feeling as though he had done something terrible to violate her trust in him. It was completely illogical, but he thought if she touched him or if she looked in his eyes, the mirrors to his soul, she would know everything and hate him, see him for the debased creature he probable was. And the other girl! He hadn't given a good gods damn about her needs or her comfort. Her body was just a place to stick his cock. She was a lay, a fuck, a distraction to ease his mind and his basic needs. How many other women would he have to bed before he was able to forget his dreams of holding Loti's quivering body in his arms as she writhed in pleasure?

The girl who he had fantasized about, who made him hard and horny and ready, who he dreamt of during his throes of passion, who would rely on him for the rest of her life, believed she had done something to upset him. Guilt was a terrible burden for any man to feel and he was feeling it now.

Well, if he was going to be honest with himself, and he was _trying _to be honest, fantasizing about her wasn't the only reason for acting like a black hearted jackass. He found her easy to talk to. To easy. She found him engaging, and he found her attentive, understanding, and empathetic, so much so he had spoken of his childhood, of his family. Nearly uttered words and thoughts and feelings he had never shared with anyone. And it was a rare occasion that he shared thoughts or feelings with anyone other than Eothain or his sister; the only two people who really knew who he was. And he had nearly let Loti, a lonely, misunderstood killer, a girl, who for all technical purposed was his servant, join that exclusive party. He had nearly revealed too much. Pretty soon he'd be divulging his inner most thoughts and blackest secrets, spending their time in deep conversation rather than work. Would it really be that bad if he did? Or would be picking at scars that hadn't yet healed? Might her understanding be the cure he sought in the arms of others? Damn it, how many times did he ask himself that same question last night holding another woman to his body?

Dismissing the ideas, the questions he had no answers for, he scrubbed his hands over his face with the raspy sound of palms over skin, meeting her eyes briefly. He didn't want to talk today. He didn't want to think or to feel.

"No," he admitted reluctantly, letting out a long deep breath. It was the only sort of apology he would offer. "No. I'm just tired, that's all." Bits of grass and tiny seeds fell from his unbound hair as his fingers ruffled their way through its wavy golden length.

Loti agreed, silently forgiving his idleness, appreciating that even great men suffered from exhaustion. Eomer's eyes were laced with red and darkly circled despite the aging sunburn on his face which had colored his skin to a warm bronze.

"I'll bring you some black tea, and a pasty. If they're not all eaten…"

"Fine," he said, and she proceeded to cross in front of him to lead the way back but Eomer pulled at her arm, scowling. She cast him a bewildered look but he crooked a come hither finger, bidding her to follow.

He led the way across the meadow to a corral of horses bursting with excitement over the prospect of attention, treats or a good hard run. Propping one large boot clad foot on the fence rail, he beckoned three horses by name, who then obediently trotted to greet him with pricked ears and snotty snorts.

"Pick one," he commanded crisply, tossing a thumb over his shoulder.

Loti furrowed her brow, confused. "Pick one?"

"Yes, pick one. You need a horse. You can't ride with me anymore." It was too hot to have her on his lap in the saddle, not to mention too frustrating letting her bottom rub against an erection she couldn't satisfy.

Two of the horses were dark bays and the third glistened black in the eye squinting sunlight. They were handsome, lean beasts with good teeth, hindquarters that bulged with muscle, and most importantly, trained for battle.

The corner of her mouth twitched, almost turning into a smile. "Really?" Then she sobered. "Aren't…" she paused, examining first the towering horses, and then the towering form of Eomer, "Aren't there any smaller ones?"

Eomer's face contorted in insult. "These are war horses! Not pack mules or ponies," he grumbled, "I might be able to find a large dog for you to ride if you want something smaller."

As he began expounding on the respective qualities and lineage of each horse, and as Loti reconciled herself to the fact that the messenger wouldn't likely leave before supper, a fourth horse, a lanky thick-chested flaxen chestnut nosed its way under Eomer's hand. He swatted the animal's attempt at affections away with an admonishing, "Not you. Get out of here."

The chestnut obliged the King of the Mark, skulking away, but undeterred, he nosed his way between the two bays to nudge Loti's arm up and sniff her indecorously under the arm. "Why not him?" she asked curiously, watching the horse's large round nostrils flare, telling her what she already knew; she needed a bath.

"_He_ is an ornery cur. Even my sister didn't want him."

She studied the horse as he wuffled, flicked his ears and licked her salty hand interestedly. He had the most amazing unbraided blonde mane and his tail, when it wasn't frantically twitching at flies, practically reached the ground. It was obvious the animal was of good stock with his well sculpted head on a serpentine neck, lean body, long spindly legs, and his shiny light reddish brown coat was true over legs, ears and forehead. High withers, deep chest and rump, and short back meant he was bred for speed, agility and war. All things considered, though, he didn't look particularly ornery. Maybe he was ornery when Eomer was around. Valar knew she certainly could be…

"Firefoot is ornery."

"Firefoot is difficult," he corrected, standing his ground.

"But Firefoot does like me."

"All horses seem to like you."

_Shit! _He scolded himself; _she set me up for that one. _Eomer ran a hand over his forehead, scratching in frustration.

"Well," she prompted hopefully.

_Well what?_ The cynic in him said. _Just give the girl what she wants, man._

After a few moments of snorting and stamping, most of which came directly from Eomer, he stubbornly relented. "Fine. But if you get thrown and break your neck, don't blame me."

Loti stood for a moment; face blank, eyes upturned in a paralyzed gaze. And then she ran the few feet of distance between them, throwing her arms around his waist. "Oh, E!" she whispered, her cheek pressed against the center of his chest, "Thank you!"

He expected the stirring he felt to come from his loins, but instead it was in his chest and belly. It wasn't a bad thing, in fact he like part of it, the part that made him feel like a man. But it was the other part, the part that made him feel exposed and vulnerable that had him bothered. What exactly was he supposed to do? Comfort her, encourage her, heap praise upon himself for his generosity, wrap her in his arms to keep her tight against his chest like a child cradling a kitten? So, unsure, he just stood there feeling foolish, looking down at her as she tried squeezing his stuffing out.

After what he thought an appropriate amount of time spent fawning over him, he gripped her by the shoulders and pushed her back, not knowing what else _to_ do.

"It's only a horse," he muttered, mildly discomposed.

Still looking like she had been punched in the stomach, she said, "I've never had anything of my own before."

"Never?" He realized he was still holding her by the shoulders and let go, subtlety clearing his throat. "His name is Thyrs."

Eomer turned to go, walked a few paces and stopped. Drawing his sword from the scabbard, he thrust it hilt first into the hands of a still dazed Loti and began working his belt off.

She raised the blade so it lay flat over her open palms. "What is it called," she asked.

"Guthwine. It was a gift from my uncle."

Guthwine was a thing of beauty…and of death. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end never considering she had so much in common with a broadsword. But where Guthwine gleamed in the sun, was well cared for and treasured, she was discarded, unloved, and dulled by the destruction that it alone had brought upon her life. How could they…

Loti shook the thought from her mind. Of course they could. Look what they had done to her; taken her pride, her childhood, her family, her purity, and her future. Look what they made her do; steal, use her body, destroy lives and families, and feel nothing, no guilt or remorse. Even now she felt neither anger nor resentment. She had never mattered to anyone, until Eomer. He thought her important, invaluable, so much so that he taken a huge gamble by offering her what he had. He didn't know she wouldn't try to kill him in his sleep, he just trusted that she would not. He gave her self-respect, confidence and hope. Eomer had given back everything taken from her, and for that, for him, she would do anything.

She looked at the blade again in her hands, from the point of the nearly blue steel blade to the perpendicular angle of the cross guard, and the brown leather wrapped hilt. The round pommel, etched with a horse's head, was inlaid with gold, and a blood red garnet for the animal's eye. Loti knew Eomer was strong and powerful but it amazed her that a man who could wield this blade could also be gentle and caring in a way that only a big man could. Did Eomer know his own strength? Or his own weakness? For surely he did have a weakness…

The plop of the scabbard and belt on the ground drew her attention again to Eomer who held the antler handle knife sheathed in its leather scabbard. He turned it over a few times, admiringly, smoothing his hand across the distressed leather covering, slowly withdrawing the blade and then snapping it back in with a hissing _click_. Loti caught it as he tossed it to her, dropping the swords tip in order to catch it in her left hand.

"Since you like it so much," was all he said.

Then she saw him do something very strange as he turned to leave. He looked away, down, back, and away again; fidgeting in the self conscious way of a boy rather than emitting the imperial confident arrogance of a supreme leader. Loti tucked the weapon against the small of her back and Eomer nodded politely. Dismissing her or himself?

As he took his leave he made one final request. "Bring me some food and send the messenger to by tent."

Human he might be. But man, he certainly was.

XXX

"Come on! Get up!" Loti demanded, smacking Eomer on the bottom, feeling nothing but his firm, muscled buttocks beneath the bed linen.

A painful groan from his prostrate form was her answer.

A month had passed since they had reached the Crossing of the Poros. Two weeks were spent at the Crossing in preparation for their current assignment on the River Haren. It had been a long, hot fortnight in the new camp where the Hared Road intersected the river on the border of South Gondor and Harad, and Loti thought that might be part of the answer to Eomer's strange behavior of the day before.

She found him with four other young men of about eighteen, shirtless, shovel in hand, digging a ditch. Admittedly, she found the sight of EomerKing doing yeoman's work entrancing and she watched him for some time from behind the sanctuary of a tent. His face and scarred belly, with that furry, soft line of hair, was smeared with dirt, and his sweat drenched hair had flattened to his neck and shoulders so that he was constantly fingering it away. With every shovelful of dirt, the muscles of his back, biceps and forearm bulged with the effort and his pectorals strained in a horizontal stripe across his chest.

"What are you doing that for?" she asked after pulling him out of the ditch to attend more pressing matters of leadership. Runnels of perspiration trailed down his temples, the hollow of his throat, his arms and through the sparse curly hairs of his chest. As glorious as he looked, he smelled equally as rank.

Glancing over his shoulder at the ditch from which she had just pulled him, he said contemptuously, "You want a place to piss don't you?" and brushed past, almost knocking her over.

It was his behavior that evening, though, that had her most worried. She sat bent over her desk inside Eomer's tent seeing to the daily log book when his shadow, made longer and darker by the burning brazier, appeared at the entrance and he ducked his head to enter. He swaggered in, almost without purpose, and somewhat disembodied, not at all with his usual commander's strength of presence. It was only then she saw the bottle in his hand. He flopped down in the chair behind his desk, settling back into it. Toying randomly with a few items on his desk, and pushing some papers around with his finger, he sighed absently. Not looking up, she heard the loud sloshing of liquid as he put the bottle to his lips and caught the sickly sweet burnt aroma of expensive Rohirric whiskey.

"Is there something wrong?" Loti questioned, toning down the curiosity and concern in her voice.

"Hmm? What? No."

He just sat there for a while, silently.

"My cousin used to make me do it."

His use of the word _cousin_ had Loti halting her labors. She relaxed back in her chair, her mouth gone dry with anticipation. "What about you cousin?" She encouraged tenderly.

Eomer's grip on the bottle was strong, if perhaps his grip on reality was not. He stared unseeingly past her, his eyes dark and murky.

"He used to make me dig the latrine pit," he replied unmoving.

_Well, that doesn't sound like something to get all misty eyed and nostalgic about_, she thought. "Why did he make you do that?"

His memories were smothering, the specters of those loved and lost swirling about him like mist on a cool damp morning, and so thick she could have brushed them away. "He didn't want me to feel privileged, or to think I was too good for something. He thought I should be a leader not just a commander. If I was to lead men they should see that I knew how to work. That I wasn't afraid to do the work. He said that they would follow me anywhere if they respected me...if I earned their respect." If Elfhelm had taught him justice and humility, his cousin Theodred had taught him leadership and how to serve his people. "I still do it once in a while so I'm not seen as… So they don't think I'm…" He blinked and shook himself, the haze of mist and memory disintegrating, "I just want to that's all."

Loti swallowed trying to relieve the tightness in the back of her throat. Eomer clearly missed his cousin, even as her own heart lurched in sorrow to think of him, but one of them needed to remain detached in this discussion. From the time she was a child, she knew the look of someone who was about to tie on a good solid drunk, and Eomer was well on his way. Like her mother, he drank to forget life, to quit thinking of his unending responsibilities, to fill the loneliness of mind or spirit, or to just feel whole again, if only for a while. The bottle was a friend who would listen and not talk back. But, ultimately, in the morning, when the fog of the drink wore off, and the realities of life resumed he would still be the same man with the same problems looking for that intangible something to help fill the void; for, like her mother, Eomer was a man who was haunted and tonight the ghosts of his past would be his companions.

"He was right," she soothed to a man who still grieved his losses, "They love you for it. Theodred, he would be proud of you. He died too young."

"All men must die," he murmured as though to himself.

He didn't speak again for some time, only focusing his mind in meditation at a spot on the ground, and Loti returned to her journal entries, the uncharacteristic quiet of the camp just outside the door.

"Do you ever miss him?"

She felt a momentary thrum in her heart. Perhaps Eomer knew more about her liaison with his cousin than she previously thought, but when she raised her head to meet his eyes, it was not Theodred of whom he spoke.

"You cannot miss what you never had," she replied in deference to the question about her father, "It is difficult to know about things that might have been." This observation included Theodred. "Eomer, are you sure you're all right?"

There was no response, except the tipping of the bottle to his lips again, and he rose from his chair, returning back into the night from whence he came. Loti threw down the quill, rising then too, thinking that was the most bizarre, morbidly prophetic, quasi suicidal conversation she had ever had, and chased after him into the dark.

A big, paw like hand snatched her wrist as she scampered past campfire outside the tent. "Oh, no you don't," admonished the thickly accented voice, "Just let him go."

Loti watched Eomer disappear into the dark depths of the night, searing his best friend with her hottest eye. "Let him go? But Eothain, I'm worried something might happen to him."

"Nothing's going to happen. He just needs to be alone for a while. I'll go after him in a bit, eh?"

"But there's something wrong with him!"

Eothain dragged her, spluttering incoherently, around a chair and forced her into the seat beside him. "I know. That's why you have to let him be."

"Is that your answer for everything? To just let him wander off to kill himself?" she hissed, tugging her arm out of his grip.

His laugh was loud and incredulous. "Kill himself? Ghaw, girl! He's not going to kill himself. Well, the drink might do it," he amended reconsidering, "but not on purpose. It's just that sometimes a man just needs to work things out on his own, eh? This is the first time you've seen it, so I suppose I really can't blame you for wanting to go after him. You're a good lass for worrying about him, though." He patted her hand, reassuringly.

"So… he's done this before?" she prodded.

"Oh, sure," Eothain said breezily, "It's gotten worse over the last year or so, but the man's got a lot on his mind. It'll happen again. Oh, and don't go asking him about it, either. If he trusts you he'll tell you, otherwise, he'll just think you're being nosey and he won't like that."

_Good piece of advice_, she decided.

"I see you're wearing his knife, though," he said as an aside, digging dirt out of his nails with his own knife. When she nodded looking perplexed, he added, "Give it some time. You'll learn all you need to know."

"Does this happen often?" she asked warily.

Eothain's answer was markedly non committal. "Oh, often enough. Go back to whatever you were doing. You can work your womanly ways on him tomorrow."

Loti sighed in helpless resignation. There was nothing else she _could_ do. Eomer's demons had returned. He would have to slay them on his own.

So now she did as Eothain suggested, returning as quickly as she left, bringing her sotted, blurry eyed, distillery smelling lord a mug of hot tea, and snapping, "Come on! Get up!" as she reentered the tent to find him still in bed, pillow covering his head, and several unintelligible groans coming from underneath the bedclothes.

He groaned audibly and disgruntled again, and a long white foot poked out, with five equally long toes. Throwing his legs over the side of the low camp bed, he grudgingly pulled the rest of his body into an upright position. He swayed a few times, opened his eyes, closed them, and repeated until at last they uncrossed. Raking a hand through his hair, it stood up in spots so he resembled a mauled hedgehog. Drawing the linens over his unclad private parts he looked sweaty, bedraggled and nauseatingly hung-over.

"Here." She thrust the mug of hot tea under his nose. "Drink. It will help the headache."

She turned to tidy up the tent, his discarded clothing littering the floor, then caught him dragging a bottle out from underneath the bed, sneakily trying to make medicinal tea into his own version of Rohirric tea.

"Give me that!" she scolded, sounding as dictatorial as possible and pried it out of his hand with some difficulty. "How can you even think about drinking anymore of this…stuff?" He had a distinctly green look about him, like overcooked mashed peas.

As she recorked the bottle with a squeaky _thump _Eomer responded with, "It helps with the pain."

"So will that," Loti snapped, pointing at the mug held loosely between his bent knees, "and without the puking, or the furry tongue. Drink. If you can keep that down I'll get you some toast."

"I can eat some now. I won't throw up."

Loti glowered down at him as best she could, toeing the chamber pot within his reach.

"Hmm. Fine." She agreed.

Returning a few minutes later, she handed him two pieces of toast which he angrily turned over and waved in the air. "It's dry!" He complained his voice unusually high. "You think I've never been drunk or hung-over before! I don't want to eat this! Couldn't you have gotten me some oatmeal?"

"Well, I've seen enough hangovers to know bread and coffee are the best things for them, and since you don't have coffee, that'll have to do. I've never been drunk _or_ hung-over, but I've never seen oatmeal used as a hangover cure, so eat that!" She demanded crossly.

"You've never been drunk before?" Eomer asked, taking a sip of the tea.

"I don't drink like you do."

"Wonderful," he muttered dryly, "That's all we need here, an intemperate woman."

He gulped another mouthful of hot tea. A light sheen of sweat had broken out over is forehead and shoulders from drinking the hot liquid and he rucked the bed linen off his legs, trying to cool off. Loti busied herself with tidying up, following the trail of discarded items from door to desk. Picking up his shirt from the head of the bed, she sniffed, decided burning was the best way to dispose of it, spun around to ask where is other shirt was, and instantly fell into a fit of giggles.

"What," Loti bubbled, pointing at his thigh, "is that?"

The corner of Eomer's mouth puckered, answering aridly, "You know very well what it is."

"_You _are full of surprises!"

The tattoo ran almost from knee to hip along the indent of his muscular outer thigh. It was a bold black outline of a galloping horse, the same which adorned the King's own standard.

"You've seen tattoos before." This was an assumption of fact rather than a question.

"Oh, sure, it's very common in the south. I've see the dark skinned men from the far south with them on their faces and heads! Can…Can I touch it?" She asked meekly, coming forward a step.

He nodded and pulled the linens back exposing the rest of his thigh and hip. The skin of his legs was very pale and soft from lack of sun and the sparse curly hairs were blonde and wiry. Her touch ignited a flurry of goose bumps that jumped across his body and his hairs stood on end like a startled porcupine.

"My brother had tattoos," she said softly, remembering, "They were big and black and covered both his arms and shoulders. They were tribal tattoos." He was watching her hand move along his leg. She took a breath and spoke again, more hesitantly. "I was so shocked to see it. My brother- The last time I saw him—I didn't know he had sworn his loyalty to a tribe, how could I? I'd been gone so long…" Her fingers traced over the line of flying tail, hindquarters and curved back. Whereas Castamir's tattoos made him appear dark and menacing, Eomer's was simple and not flaunted, a symbol of who he was and what was important in his life. "He was in love with a girl but she couldn't marry outside the tribe, so he joined them and did it as an initiation ritual. He was a stone mason and had such big arms! I wonder if my mother ever saw. He looked so silly, with those blue eyes and that black hair that always fell in his eyes and all that white skin covered in black symbols." She sniffed choking down her pain.

Then again, maybe their reasons for so boldly and permanently marking themselves were quite similar. Be it for love of country or the love of a woman, were their reasons not the same. Didn't they consciously choose to brand themselves for something they believed in? Shouldn't they both be commended for displaying their respective loves so proudly?

Her voice dropped off as she continued to trace the outline of the horse tattoo, fingertips curving over the windblown mane, and cresting the top of the head, coming dangerously close to the thicker, darker hair that grew between his legs. The flesh of her own arm rose up in a ripple along her skin he saw, watching as her fingers drew lightly and so carefully, caressing the striations and bulges of his thigh. It was a reaction of awareness. But what of desire? For him, yes. She was rousing him even now with that touch, light as the breeze from a butterfly's wings. His heart was beating faster, his skin hotter; a trickle of sweat ran along his spine, and down the small of his back.

He had never been a modest man, always confident in his sexuality and proud of his body. Even now he wanted to throw off the bed linen, snatch her wrist and press himself into her open hand. He wanted to lean back and watch her stroke him as she had before, steady and smooth. Only this time he would make her finish the job and bring him to a body numbing end. So what was stopping him? If it were any other wench he'd nearly be finished by now. Could it be respect, or simply not just wanting to receive pleasure, but to give it? He lifted his eyes to stare directly into her open blouse. Damn it all, the frustration building inside his body would kill him! Her breasts were smooth and loose and her nipples erect with the shiver of goose bumps. An over whelming urge filled his mind and then surged through his blood to swell into a throbbing erection. It was an intimate yearning to cup her breasts in his hands and run his tongue over the perky brown tips, slowly savoring the taste and feel of them, both salty and sweet, with the hope to just once hear her moan his name. Gods, was it so wrong?

But what _of_ her desire? That tingling reaction could be anything from fear to unbridled lust. She hid her emotions well, as she was likely trained to do. _Except for maybe anger_, he determined. She seemed to have a difficult time with that one.

Eomer realized in his musings he was coming on to full arousal. This wasn't acceptable, and he cruelly slapped her hand away. "It's not like it will come to life," he growled with a sharp bite in his words.

"It's a good thing you got it there," she tossed back, glaring again, "You're as white as the horse on your flag."

He had to admit, he liked it when she gave him those severe looks. It made him feel cared for. Silly, wasn't it, for a grown man of nearly thirty to feel that way, or perhaps not, when the woman who should have given him those looks died when the man was only a boy.

Eomer watched her, drinking his unfortified tea and eating the abysmally dry toast, scurrying around picking up after him, and setting the tent aright after his calamitous, drunken return. He didn't like it, but, resigned, had given up trying to stop her from picking up his stuff, doing his laundry, and generally making his life easier. She could make his life miserable with the constant arguing he decided, or he could just let her do whatever the hell she wanted and say thank you. So like any man faced with the prospect of confrontation with a shrewish, recalcitrant woman, he let her have her way. He knew his role. He was secretly glad she didn't know hers…

This must be the meaning of domestic bliss; he smiled, tilting his head to get a better look at her rounded bottom as she bend over her desk reaching for something. Too bad it didn't include the other benefits of domesticity…

At least she didn't fawn all over him like some did, offering to wipe is ass or whatever the men of the royal bedchamber did in Gondor. He never understood why he needed special treatment and found it just plain insulting on top of being injurious to his pride. Why indeed? Just because he was called Lord, Marshal, King. Those were just titles, names by which he was identified within the Rohirrim. His arms and legs weren't broken; he could walk to the well and heat his own bath water, he could hunt for and cook his own food, wash his own clothes, saddle his own damn horse. How would he have made it as a soldier otherwise? There was nothing all together special about him. Wasn't he just a man, wasn't he just like every other man? Didn't he piss standing up, make love, laugh, and grieve? Nothing about him had ever changed. He was still Eomer, Son of Eomund no matter what the title.

Irritation was scratching at his insides and he took a restorative sip of tea. He remembered laughing with Faramir about Gondor's men of the royal bedchamber. Would Aragorn really submit to having someone bathe him and wipe his ass? He certainly didn't seem like the kind of man who would tolerate _that_ for any amount of time, but still, he was the King of Gondor... _It's probably another reason he didn't come forward sooner_, he chuckled to himself. He would have to ask the next time he saw his friend.

At least Aragorn had time to prepare; knew his whole life who he was, knew what his destiny might ultimately be. Whereas he had no time to prepare, no way of knowing where his destiny might lie. Even as a boy he never dreamed of being king, never played pretend games with his friends that might make him want for something he was not entitled too. "Do not want for something you cannot have," his father had said. A good lesson and well learned. And so he had followed in his father's footsteps, had chosen to serve rather than to want. After all, it could never be any other way…

She set out clean clothes and left to tend to other company business. Today he would ride into the city to meet with a merchant, probably why the girl was so anxious to sober him up; this was an important meeting. They were too far from home or allies, in too hostile a territory, and had too many mouths to feed to be cut off from a supply chain. He had gotten the name of a good man, well, a good business man at least if he was willing to do business with the commander of an occupying army, and hoped to contract with him for his services.

He had just finished doing up the laces of his britches when Loti returned and assisted with the rest of his arrayment. She followed him from the tent into the warm, humid morning asking, "Who are you taking with you?"

Eomer stopped abruptly, and slanted his eyebrows critically. "You. Who else?"

He could say about three words in her language and those three very badly. She had tried to teach him some useful and basic words and phrases if he should find it necessary, but the subtlety of vowels and construction of sentences was so complex and specific, and the stressing of syllables so incomprehensible he had given up in an explosion of curses and hair pulling. So what if you pronounced a word that sounded like another word! Couldn't the listener just figure it out? It was fitting that he fail his language lessons, he supposed, being the only member of the Rohirrim not gifted with the art of conversation or storytelling…He wasn't all that good at Westron come to think of it… _Probably comes from the fucking gondorian side of the family_, he cursed.

All the color had drained from her face, and she stood wide eyed and open mouthed looking up at him, before she whirled around, braids whipping against him and bolted back into the tent.

"Where is it?" Loti cried out, clamoring frantically through the hodge podge of items in one of his chests.

"Where's what?"

"My scarf, Eomer, I need it! Where is it?"

Eomer exhaled loudly through his nose. "You don't need it."

Loti spun to confront him, the horror of his words written on her face. "Eomer," she gasped, scandalized, "It's improper! Do you know what can happen? I can't do that!"

Drowning in impatience, he grabbed her arm, barking, "You can and you will!"

In the event, she did go scarf-less but was able to grab her black leather coat, to afford her a trifle more modesty, and her satchel into which, after some gripping, Eomer shoved two bottles of whiskey. They rode with few delays, stopping only once for Eomer to greet the soldiers whose duty it was to guard the wide stone bridge that crossed the River Haren leading into the main city on the other shore. The bridge was heavy with foot and animal drawn cart traffic and the Eomer's men, excited by his impromptu visit, paused, if only briefly, from their duties inspecting any and all items carried over the bridge and into the city on the Gondorian side of the border. Eomer greeted each man by name with a smile and a handshake or friendly embrace, while he was met with a few teasing, good natured jests from those who knew him best. He made inquiries into each man's home life, how they were fairing and if there was anything he could do to easy the stresses of being so far from home. On the odd occasion he didn't know someone, he would ask the man's name, where he came from and delve into the monotonous tangle of family relations, often finding something, or someone, in common.

Loti felt a sense of pride to just be associated with Eomer. Men flocked to him and seemed to flourish under his leadership. He had an indefinable 'it' quality that only men born to lead possessed. She enjoyed watching him work the crowd, moving from man to man, her chest fluttering with beating wings whenever he turned back to see her patiently waiting atop Thyrs and giving a good humored wink. And not for the first time, she questioned the stories of his cruelty.

After a while, he remounted and they rode purposefully across the bridge and into the city. It was a good sized city, and roughly translated into Eomer's guttural Rohirric tongue it meant City of the Many Colored Sails, named so because of the countless trading vessels crammed cheek by jowl into the many quays, canals and backwaters along the river. It was a fairly wealthy city, occupying a strategic location on the border of South Gondor, along the banks of one of Middle earth's most important rivers. But it was the Harad Road that infused the city with its wealth, importance, and diversity. The road made the city a major trading stop, bringing the spices of Far Harad and the textiles of Near Harad to the kingdoms of the north while sending wealthy northern merchants south. From the city, goods could be loaded on to ships headed to Dol Amroth or ports farther north or continue over land into Gondor, Rohan, and beyond via the Great West Road. Some of Harad's wealthiest and most powerful men called this city home.

There was a down side to the wealth and trade that made it an important hub in the world's economic sphere. Its cultural diversity and the transient nature of its inhabitants meant the city was ripe with crime, violence, insurgency and hate. Every day patrols returned to camp with reports of skirmishes between clans, within clans or between locals and the Rohirrim and she wrote about them far too often in the daily log book as hostilities towards outsiders became more vocal, more frequent and more violent.

Many of the Haradrim merchants also found the army's presence to be stifling. Their constant complaints came via letters or threats of violence as northern traders found new ports of call further south in Umbar or beyond, choosing to avoid the city for fear of losing their expensive, precious cargo. Haradrim businessmen, shrewd and guileful to the core, resented losing money.

The city's streets were cobbled but narrow, pervaded with inhabitants, and slick with filth and humidity; not ideal conditions for animals who called the vast green prairies of the Riddermark home. Deciding it was too difficult to continue, Eomer stabled Firefoot and Thyrs and they continued on foot towards the wharf.

Loti stayed close to Eomer in the hustle and bustle of the streets, keeping her head down, the wings of her unbraided hair falling around her face. She had been to the city a few times, most recently on her mission to destroy the man who was now her employer, but had never dared stray from the main road. Even so, there was no great need to look around. Most of the buildings were low, no more than a few stories tall, made from stone or brick with businesses on the bottom story and residences above for the owner's family and what middle class tradesmen tenants there were. The wealthiest inhabitants occupied large gated homes along the river front or on the outer edges of town. For poorer residents, the low born and dregs of society, lived one on top of another in squalid, decaying buildings in the slummiest, less desirable sections of the city where rodents, sewage and disease ran rampant.

Eomer had the ranger's skill for navigation, having been born and raised in the vast wilds of the Riddermark, and got lost only once. Undeterred, and biologically unable to ask for directions, they found their way back to the correct street and the entrance to the city's largest and busiest indoor bazaar.

Loti had seen bazaars before, and liked the indoor ones best, having the tendency to be more upscale, and offer a greater array of items. It was refreshingly cool inside, the thick stone of the buildings above insulating the market from the strangling humidity and heat of the spring sun. The smells of spices, coffee, and frying foods were incredibly intense and instantly her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, hungry for the taste of food from home. There were other scents too, the light sweetness of fresh flowers, the musky weight of the perfumers shops, and the unmistakable lanolin sheep odor of wool drifting from the large stores where rugs were hooked and sold.

She stopped suddenly, her eye catching a spark of silver on a table of a nearby stall. It was an silver vanity set, a looking glass, ivory comb and hairbrush, all engraved with in an ivy and flower pattern. Looking longingly at the finery, she sighed, thinking of her own broken hairbrush and the horse trough she used as a mirror.

"We're not here to do the shopping," a deep, annoyed voice said in her ear, and Eomer dragged her away.

It was another half hour before they reached the wharf and the man with whom the King of the Mark wished to do business. The merchant Indalecio was a short, tubby man with a day's worth of rough stubble on his light olive skinned face, and he over saw the frantic unloading of his newly arrived cargo ship like a whip cracking despotic. He was balding, but the rest of his long coarse black hair was queued into a series of stacked tails stretching to his shoulder blades. His clothing, a rich chocolate brown velvet coat and matching knee length tunic trimmed in gold braid, was as ostentatious as the man beneath.

After giving Loti a disdainful glare and sweeping an eye over Eomer's Rohirric battle dress, Indalecio bowed formally, and never failing to see an opportunity to make money, invited the pair into his office. It was a utilitarian space located on the top floor of his dockside warehouse, and took several flights of stairs to reach. There were only two windows in the room; one large leaded glass window freckled with tiny bubbles over looked the river below and the other a smaller one above the desk, behind which the merchant settled heavily into his chair. He clasped his hands over his protruding belly.

Loti spoke first at Eomer's behest. "I am to speak for my lord since he does not speak your language," she began diplomatically.

Indalecio's eyes never wavered from Eomer's and he barked coldly, "Then there is nothing else to discuss. I do not discuss business when whores are present."

Straightening herself as tall as she could in the chair next to Eomer, she spoke with all the dignity and courage she could summon. "My lord would not like to hear you say that."

"I care not at all about the opinion of a gutter slut," he spat, tiny droplets of spittle flying from his lips on the last word.

Her mouth curved pleasantly and she cast her eyes about, visibly taking in a sweeping view of the room. It was simple, yes, and stank of expensive cigars, but from the ornate hand carved furniture to the crystal decanter and cups on the table behind him and the ornate mosaic silk carpet beneath their feet, it was clear the merchant had accumulated a large amount of personal wealth. He did a good deal of business from the warehouse below.

"That _is _unfortunate," she pouted, taking another look around, openly assessing his assembled furniture and doodads, "This is a nice building. Big, expensive, well built isn't it? Full of inventory, yes? I'm sure you do a good bit of business out of here. It would be sad to see something… happen to it?" Her voice pitched higher at the end, leaving her meaning open to interpretation.

Indalecio frowned severely, lines creasing between his brows, and he leaned forward in his chair lowering down at her. "You wretched, ugly bitch, are you threatening me?"

Loti smiled back charmingly, calm and reserved, even if her heart had beat itself loose and was thumping around uncontrollably in her chest like a fish on dry land thinking about what she needed to do next. Her friends, Eomer's men, needed this man's help. And Eomer needed her. Although she quaked a bit inside, she'd be damned if she was going to leave him alone to negotiate a contract for food and supplies with this unscrupulous bastard.

Southrons, on the whole, were a superstitious lot, most being uneducated, poor or having never ventured more than a few miles from the place they were born. Even she had believed the outrageous stories about Eomer and the Rohirrim, and she more educated than most; stories that grew and became more bloated, distorted and distended with each retelling, stories that had little or no basis in fact whatsoever from what she had seen. It was very likely this man had never met anyone from Rohan, and even less likely that he had been there, seeing as it was an isolated, land locked country. Who would have thought those stories would work now work to their advantage?

She had been trained a spy; was good at lying and deception and she was quick on her feet. But it was from watching Eomer that she had learned to look for a person's motivations and how to manipulate those motivations for one's own end. She had witnessed him doing it many times, mostly with the younger soldiers. In a few quick minutes he would put his arm around the young man's shoulders, speak a few brief words in his ear, and more often than not, watch as the boy ran off to do his bidding, bent to his lord's will. On the other rarer occasions, yelling, humiliation, or threats were used to entice compliance; whatever it took to get the job done. Loti had learned that the hard way. He was as skilled in the art of manipulation as she was at lying. They could be a dangerous, devious couple under the right circumstances.

After closely observing Indalecio's surroundings, she didn't think he could be plied with a kind word in his ear. Loti assessed, quit accurately, he had a taste for the good life. His motivations were money, yes, status, yes… Power, perhaps? The misogynistic mongrel would speak with her if he felt he had something to gain, or, she thought, everything to lose.

"Threatening? Oh, no, but you see, my lord has some power amongst his people. He is a devil," she suggested, confidentially, "He brings death and destruction everywhere he goes. No heart beats in his chest and he doesn't bleed when his is cut because he is pure evil." She looked over at Eomer who was occupying himself by picking dirt from under his nails with a small dagger, legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles. _Evil indeed_, she thought. He looked like he might be settling in for a little afternoon nap. "No belly button, either," she exaggerated, enjoying adding her own twist to the mythological man, "It is said he sprang naked from the peak of a mountain."

Compulsion made her reach out to him, brush his hair behind his ear and run the backs of her fingers along his bearded cheek, still damp with sweat. Heartless as stone, she felt his body tense and stiffen, but he gave no other reaction. Her next words came easily, because, somewhere inside, she felt they might be true. "He is very fond of me, you know. I mean, I'm so much warmer and more responsive in bed than the horses and cattle he usually beds with, but even so, he's still so…ruthless," she added for emphasis, lovingly curling one lock of wavy hair around her finger. Indalecio's chair creaked as he shifted his bulk uncomfortably. "I've never seen him destroy something so _big_ before!"

"What are you talking about?" The devil in question asked; suspicion creeping into his voice, but still attending his barbaric manicure.

She heard rather than saw the man behind the desk swallow convulsively, the large bump in his throat bobbing with the movement.

"Nothing really," she flipped, "Just formalities, pleasantries, that sort of thing."

"And these formalities involve touching my face, huh?" he said quizzically. Then Eomer sighed explosively, pushing himself up in the chair, "What did he say?"

Her hand smoothed over the leather pauldrons of his shoulders and down his arm, feeling the solid, rounded line beneath. The rings of the mail shirt were unexpectedly warm with the heat of his body. "He said he won't talk to you with me here."

His palm turned up, and he watched as her hand, delicate and fine boned, rested in his own. He must have felt her fingers trembling slightly because his big hand, with long, thick skinned fingers, closed over it reflexively. Loti liked his hands, liked them a lot in fact. She had studied them many times and in such different ways; guiding his horse by the reigns, playing with his sword, shoeing Firefoot, even writing, holding the fragile milky white shaft of a swan's quill as he scratched away on a page. The palms were work worn and permanently stained brown from the leather of his reins while the backs were broad, flat and lightly furred with golden brown hairs. Several of the fingers on both his hands had been broken, either in battle or by work, and were crooked and scarred. She was making a real effort to separate her duties from her emotions, but, oh, Valar, it was so hard when just the heat of him, the sheltering grip of his hand made her insides were turn to jelly.

"And what did you say?" His voice was huskier than usual.

"Mmm," she licked her dry lips seductively, as much for Indalecio's benefit as to covertly drive away her own nervousness. Bubbling over like a pot of boiling water she happily proclaimed, "I told him we were lovers."

"And?" Eomer brought their linked hands to his heart.

Loti's mouth curved again, and she looked up into his bright blue gaze, as warm and amorous as a chaste groom on his wedding night. "And, that you would destroy his warehouse if he refused talk with me. He believes all the things that are said about you."

"I see." Oh, yes, he did see, and was playing his part well. Far too well for all that! From their entwined hands, he plucked out her forefinger, calloused and sore from weeks of constant writing, and pressed it to his lips. They were warm and firm, the hairs of his mustache lightly tickling her skin and she lowered long, sooty lashes, lest he see her eyeballs roll back in her head, dizzy with freakish delirium. "Girl, you're not just smart, you're clever too, aren't you?" Eomer murmured endearingly against her finger, giving it another kiss. "And he has no idea what we're talking about, does he?"

Loti looked at Indalecio, askance. The color in the man's face had gone quite ashen, and his breathing, shallow. His lips brushed her fingertip again and his eyes, light blue, held hers, dark as a dusky sky. "No, I don't believe he does." Her voice sounded breathy, even to her own ears.

His thumb worked between their palms, pressing her open hand over his chest, but he no longer wore an expression of equanimity. "What did he call you?"

"Whore, bitch, and, oh, gutter slut."

Eomer's grip crushed her fingers, and his eyes, turning cold as a winter rain, narrowed in displeasure, awaiting the answer to a question he hadn't yet asked.

"I tried to tell you before," she soothed tenderly, doing her best to assuage his anger, knowing he would take umbrage with Indalecio's misogynous slurs, "It's because my head isn't covered. Didn't you see the way people were looking at me on the street?"

A reaction she had expected, had hoped for, some way to showcase his erratic unexpected behavior, but the power with which he was delivered it was frightening. In one arcing motion of pure, unadulterated power, Eomer rammed his dagger down into the polished desktop. The thud of the strike and the ripping sound of cracking wood reverberated off the walls. Indalecio jumped back, the stout man almost falling out of his chair, eyes as wide and white as boiled eggs. He had sheathed the blade halfway to the hilt, leaving it quivering with the force of impact.

"Well," Loti bounced in her seat to face Indalecio, bursting with anticipation and beaming with a smile as big as a rainbow, "Shall we tell him what you said about me?" She thought of the wiggling knife in front of her, wondering what kind of strength it took to bury it, bare handed, into solid oak.

The merchant, having reestablished his faculties, gushed, "What can humble Indalecio do for the army of Rohan?"

With the squeaking of splitting wood, Eomer jiggled the blade and wrenched it free, signaling negotiations to begin in earnest.

"I want to contract with you for delivery of supplies to my camp. Food, barrels of ale, firewood, hay and grain for the horses. Whatever we need. We may be here for some time. I have money. I'm willing to pay."

Indalecio nodded considering, slumping back in his chair and steepling his thumbs and index fingers. He had regained his self possession, if not the color in his face. "Well, I do see your predicament, and I suppose you are right. You need a local merchant for delivery of such items. But you are not well liked, in fact, that is using a mild term. Despised is more like it. I could lose many of my wealthiest clients by doing business with you. It's very unstable here, any fool can see that, and it's hard to say what the reaction from the populous might be, not to mention the tribal chieftains. Rub them the wrong way and they won't just threaten to destroy my warehouse. I'm more afraid of them than I am of you. But," he vacillated, scratching his stubble covered throat, "for the right deal, I may be convinced otherwise. So convince me! Why should I take the risk and do business with the Rohirrim."

The little half smile tugged at Eomer's lip, "For opportunity, and whiskey."

"Whiskey?" The tubby merchant repeated through Loti, leaning forward interestedly on the desk. "Rohirric whiskey?"

Whiskey makers from Rohan were among the finest in the world. Made to the highest standards, expensive and barreled in small quantities, it was a beverage highly prized by wealthy and nobles alike, even far into the depths of an uncivilized place like Harad.

"This is what I propose," Eomer began, settling back in the chair, crossing one booted foot over his knee. Ironically, Loti recalled hearing something very similar not too long ago, and her gut told her he would be making Indalecio a deal he could not or would not refuse. "In exchange for providing us with the supplies we need while we are here, I'll offer you the exclusive right to buy as many casks of whiskey as you would like from Rohan's royal stores, from my own estate in Aldburg."

Much to her surprise, Indalecio laughed, his mouth a gaping hole in his bulbous head. Eomer seemed unphased as usual, but Loti felt put out. This proposal could be worth a small fortune to both men; couldn't this laughing baboon see that?

He knuckled away a small tear from the corner of his eye. "Who does he think he is to make me such an offer?" Indalecio asked Loti, sounding both mirthful and scornful, "Why he's nothing more than a well dressed officer! Under whose authority does he work? I will not be making deals with someone who has no authority to do so, nor will I risk time or money doing business with a corrupt man. This is a warehouse, a legitimate business, not a smuggler's hole!"

She couldn't help but giggle. Eomer guarded his identity closely, never introducing himself as anything other than Eomer, Son of Eomund. Even so, rumors abounded that the King of the Mark led the forces stationed across the river in South Gondor. So, she supposed, it was possible Indalecio didn't know who sat on the other side of his desk.

"Do you really not know?" And without waiting for a reply, she turned to Eomer. "He doesn't know who you are!"

"Mmm," he nodded, "Then tell him."

Bringing her attention back to Indalecio, Loti explained. "My lord does have the authority. He is the King of the Mark."

The merchant looked from her to Eomer and back. "No," he shook his head denying the truth, and babbled on.

After listening to him ramble, she hid behind a cupped hand, fizzing with laughter again.

His lordship, being the topic of conversation, shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Yes?"

Loti sunk her bottom teeth into her top lip, turning it white. "Ah, among other things, he said the King of Rohan is a cross eyed, bowl legged dwarf who foams at the mouth and rides a donkey." She snorted and bit her lip harder, imagining the handsome warrior next to her described as such. "I hadn't heard any of those before! Your legend is growing! Or shrinking in this case!" Overcome, she dissolved into a flood of giggles. "They—um-call you-gorilla face."

His eyebrows lifted. "What the hell is a gorilla? Not very complimentary, I suppose."

"I'll explain it later."

He grunted. Then, at Eomer's, signal she produced the whiskey bottles and his signet ring from her satchel, laying them on the table for Indalecio's inspection. The merchant bobbed his head satisfactorily, raising his eyebrows but otherwise unshaken by the announcement of Eomer's true identity. The man would likely do business with Morgoth himself if it meant nailing down another wealthy, influential client.

Reaching to the side board behind him, he brought out two, then with a disapproving look at Loti, three crystal glasses. In gentlemanly fashion, Eomer noisily uncorked one of the bottles, gave Loti the same disapproving look, and poured out a stingy splash of the dark liquor, handing her the glass. He filled the other two glasses much more generously and settled back again.

Now it was Loti's turn to look disapproving. He wasn't going to drink again was he? There were at least two empty bottles in the tent and the smell of his nepenthean night still clung to his clothes and hair. Only Valar knew how much he had really drunk last night. It was beginning to look like Eomer was his own best customer.

He offered up a rather crude toast, which Indalecio found extremely amusing, and drank. Loti sipped politely at her drink, its rich contents numbing her lips and the tip of her nose almost immediately. Eomer on the other hand was savoring the rich, heady, burned flavor, swirling it in his mouth before swallowing. Why did men insist on drinking heartburn educing, brown water that tasted like moldy old tree roots? And then act like they enjoyed it?

Indalecio tilted the glass, its contents gently heaving to and fro. "Like drinking liquid amber," he observed appreciatively, and Eomer concurred with an "ah." "Tell our fat friend here, what I'm willing to sell—this stuff- is from my own private stock. There's only a few hundred barrels of the well aged whiskey left. The rest was either destroyed when my house was sacked or it's still raw and aging. So tell him I'd sell them for," Eomer paused as he calculated, "one hundred fifty gold pieces. Each."

Sacked? She filed that passing comment away, intending to ask him about it at another time.

"One hundred fifty each!" Indalecio bellowed, his belly heaving with laughter. He held up the glass, the sunlight from the window behind him lighting sparks from the cut crystal and the contents glowed translucent like jeweled topaz. "Good Quality? Yes! Rare? Most certainly! One hundred and fifty gold pieces? Never! Eight five. My final offer."

"You could resell it to the Royal House of Dol Amroth for three times that much. Eight five..," Eomer scoffed, smiling and, just possibly, enjoying the haggling, "One thirty five."

The merchant took another slug of his guest's product. "One thirty five, bah! I have to bottle it to make any real profit and take into account the buying of bottles, the labor involved in bottling, and the difficulty in transporting them, no; one thirty five is too much. One hundred. My final offer."

Eomer crossed his arms, one finger over his lips, strategizing. "No, not enough, one twenty five," Loti told Indalecio, simply, to which he replied, "One twenty five is still too much. One hundred ten gold pieces. No more!"

"One fifteen."

There were a few moments silence as Indalecio considered the potential feasibility of this offer.

"Fine, but I don't pay until I receive the cargo and it's inspected. At one hundred fifteen you have a deal!" Agreeably, Eomer nodded and Indalecio popped his bulk out of his seat with the agility of a street performer and leaned over the desk, extending a hand. They shook on the agreed price, exchanging pleasantries over the excellent opportunity and the fairness of the price, and both men resettled themselves, each thinking he had outdone the other. Turning to the polished sideboard again, Indalecio opened a tiny, heavily lacquered chest, producing two large cheroots, and passed one to Eomer, who ran it invitingly under his nose.

"As to the issue of supplies," Indalecio stopped, puffing on the cheroot he was lighting from a tapered candle, "I supposed I could be persuaded into offering you a line of credit…"

Now Eomer took the candle, "No. No credit. I will pay upon delivery of the receipt." He drew heavily on the cheroot until the blunt tip glowed red, and then slouched back in his seat, gazing at it between his fingers. The room quickly filled with the sunlit haze of smoke motes swirling and lingering in the air.

Loti reluctantly became the awkward third wheel in a technical discussion about the distillation, barreling, storage and tasting of fine, high quality liquors. Besides whiskey, Eomer's estate also produced brandy, a clear charcoal filtered liquor made from potatoes, red and white wine, including port, and copious amounts of the Rohirrim staple, ale.

His smile fell on her occasionally, his perfect teeth and sky blue eyes appearing even more striking against the tanned skin of his face.

Her mind began to drift, only half listening to the firming up of minor business details, not needing to pay attention in order to translate the mundane. She rolled what was left of the whiskey around in the glass distractedly, feeling her stomach shriveling. Having risen at dawn, she had eaten her oat cake and hardboiled egg, but it was nearly midday, and her stomach was beginning to issue its demands. It gave the occasional rumble or gurgle, wondering if it would ever be fed again.

Indalecio's voice jolted her out a daydream about fresh ground coffee.

"You pig fucking bastard!" she blurted, popping out of her seat and nearly over his desk before Eomer clamped a hand down on her shoulder, forcing her bottom back into the chair. "He's got some nerve! Do you know what he asked?" When he didn't immediately answer she said, "He wants to know if you'd be willing to sell me to him!"

"Wait," Eomer frowned, thoughtfully, removing the moistened tip of the cheroot from between his lips, "Before we tell him no, see how much he's willing to pay."

Loti looked aghast, feeling her heart leap into her throat. "Eomer," she choked, "you wouldn't!"

"Ghaw, you're so naïve. How did you ever make it as a spy?" He needled, yanking teasingly on a handful of her hair, obviously entertained by her appalled reaction. "Of course I wouldn't. You're value to me is worth far more than anything he could offer."

"Oh," she sighed, relieved, as he put the wet end of the cheroot back in his mouth, and pulled on it, igniting the glowing red band around the tip.

"Good maids are hard to find nowadays. Thank the man for his time." He got to his feet, none too soon for Loti's liking, and the merchant followed suit. They shook hands amiably. "Tell him it's been my pleasure, and we'll be in touch," and Eomer cordially gestured to Indalecio with the end of the cheroot in appreciation for his hospitality.

"You actually trust him?" Loti asked, as they made their way through the crowded streets after leaving the warehouse.

"He has a good reputation." Eomer said plaintively, "A man doesn't get that by double crossing his clients, buyers or sellers. He's got honor, if nothing else. And I wasn't likely to get much more than what he was offering for the whiskey anywhere else. Besides," he continued, sidling sideways to squeeze between a man with a pants wearing monkey on his shoulder, and a woman precariously balancing a basket laden with fruit on her head, "he was educated in Gondor and his first wife is from there," like that explained it all.

"What does that have anything to do with it?" She didn't like being left out in the dark.

"It means he has an interest in following through. He has connections in Gondor and wouldn't want to risk his reputation. A man like him is always looking for opportunities. He sees this deal as an opportunity for new business in the Mark and Gondor too, but also with anyone else who can expand his trading empire. He'll use me or my name at least, to open the door for more business, to make new connections. It's no coincidence his primary wife his Gondorian." Then he spat, "Damn bigamists. That's probably why he wanted to buy you. A mind like his is always thinking. I could see it working just as we sat there. Pretty girl like you he could sell off as a mistress. Already had somebody in mind in bet too, the dirty bastard. Anyway," he dismissed this as if it had never happened, "he's an alliance builder. That's what his wife is. That's what he sees me as. Understand?"

"You've been checking up on him." She stated, racing after him, trying to stay on his heels in the throngs of people.

"I check on every one I deal with."

"Except me."

He made a noise. "Yah, except you."

She continued to follow him as he barged into the depths of the bazaar, gladly leaving the heat of the day and the populated streets behind. The pace of his walk slowed, becoming much more casual, and it allowed her to walk beside him, until she once again passed the shop she had paused at earlier. They were still there, laid out before her, temptingly. Breathing out heavily, she felt Eomer's presence appear at her side. He looked at the silver engraved vanity set. "You like these?"

"Yes," she admitted, but gave a one shoulder shrug, "but I do not have any money. I just like to look."

"Mmm," he grunted, when she turned her face up to him with a forced smile and picked up the mirror and turning it over in his hand with the disinterest of a man. "Ask the man how much?"

She crinkled an eyebrow. "How much?"

"Yes, for the… things. How much?" His voice was filled with impatience.

"No!" She rushed, arguing against the idea, "E, it's too much! I didn't mean you should buy them for me!"

"Ask," he said, as the skinny, well dressed shopkeeper stepped forward to greet the pair.

Loti turned, under protest, and spoke briefly with the man, before addressing Eomer, who wore a strained expression. "He says they're solid silver."

"Yes, I can see that. How much?"

"Twenty five, but E, it's too much, really-"

"Stop it! You need them," he bit out, and scowling at the shopkeeper, flashed ten fingers and another five. If she wasn't going to help, he would have to take matters into his own hands. "Fifteen."

The skinny man thrust out his lips stubbornly, and shaking his head, put up ten fingers and then ten again. This time, Eomer was the one who shook his head and pursed his lips, determined to drive a hard bargain, holding up only ten fingers this time. Not surprisingly, the shopkeeper agreed to fifteen.

Loti said nothing, only stood gaping as he dropped the coins in the man's hand. Gathering the looking glass, comb and brush he pressed them with gentle insistence against her chest.

"You've earned them."

Her eyes glistened wet, threatening to spill over as she clutched her new things. "Oh, Eomer," was all she could say, the lump in her throat as painful as her heart was light. This was a greater gift than the horse. "It… I…You…" and shook her head.

"Just," he interrupted her stammering, "Say thank you."

"Thank you," she said faintly.

He nodded slowly, averting his eyes from the emotion and gratitude in her gaze.

The shopkeeper took them and laid the items in a velvet lined wooden box which Loti gratefully slid inside her satchel.

He led the way past the remaining shops and smells of the bazaar and back out into the congested square. Men pulled carts or wheelbarrows, or hocked goods from street side stands while women dickered over prices, or comforted squalling babies. But while people clamored to move out of Eomer's way, and the space closed back around him, Loti maneuvered through the masses circuitously, watching as he slowly slipped further and further away, drawn like a ship into the currents of the surf.

"Excuse me," she mumbled to a man as she tried squeezing past, beginning to worry about losing contact with a rapidly disappearing Eomer. She didn't want to lose him in case-

A hand caught her tightly by the arm. Whirled around, Loti stared up into the face of the hand's owner. It was a pock marked, rotten toothed face.

"Well, look what we have here," the man's voice sneered, "The little whore is out all by herself." He was dressed shabbily, and he stank of stale liquor and onions.

Loti tried several times to jerk her arm free his grip. He was deceptively strong despite his outward appearance and current state of inebriation. "Let go of me you dirty son of a bitch!" she snarled through bared teeth.

The man laughed, "Now, now, hussy. Not until we've had a little fun first. What do you say, lads?"

It was then she took note of the other men behind him, all sporting the same need for forced female companionship. Gorge rising and temper flaring, she made her lips into a bow and spat directly and forcefully in his face.

Eomer stopped dead when he heard her cry out. He had heard it once before, only a few moments after he first laid eyes on her; after the back of his own hand had struck her in the face. An icy chill ran up his spine; a gut splitting fear for her safety that sunk like a ball of lead in his stomach.

But surely, he convinced himself, if he looked, he would find her just behind…

Slowly, he turned to find what he knew would not be there. The mob of people were beginning to move more quickly, pushing against him as he scanned the faces, direly hopeful for any sign of her, searching in the direction from which they had just come. A sense of dread filled his chest and he began pushing his way back, fighting the crowd, not caring who or what he was shoving, just knowing he had to find the girl.

He stood a head taller than the rest of the masses and saw a space cleared by the crowd in the middle of the square. He ran for the opening, pushing and shoving, and bowling people over in his urgency.

His body turned inside out when he saw it. She was there, on her knees in the dirty street, surrounded by a handful of raggedly dressed, filthy men. Thugs. A street gang. One man was holding her by the hair, wrenching her head back and the other… The other was fumbling with the laces of his britches.

Instantly, he could feel the change in his body; from anger to rage, from hate to loathing, the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, the blurring of his vision into a single focused intensity. He would kill them. Every last one. With his bare hands.

Bursting from the surrounding horde, he reached the first thug, spun him by the shoulder and crashed his fist into his nose with a bone splitting crack. Blood splattered out over the ground as the man went down in a heap and two more rushed him yelling curses. One was holding a knife and he slashed at Eomer with such force the man lost his balance. Eomer's hand and arm clubbed him square in the side of the head as the second man attacked from his other side. He brought an elbow smashing into the second thug's face and buried solid fist in the man's belly, doubling him over. Then he thrust his knee up to his chest with a rib breaking crunch, forcing the man upright again. Eomer seized the thug by the shirt before he tumbled over backwards, and threw him bodily into a standing crowd of onlookers.

The masses of people in the square were scattering now, zig sagging like agitated ants out of a hill. The thugs too had retreated, leaving Loti hunched on hands and knees on the stone cobbles. Drawing his sword, Eomer ran to her, hauling her unresisting body up by the scruff of her neck. He held her tightly to his side, fending off their attackers with the tip of his blade. They had regrouped, some with knives or clubs, not willing to give up the fight or their prey so easily. The man who must have been the leader of the gang loudly rattled something off, likely anti-Rohirric epithets, and gestured forcefully as he spoke. In the fast flood of gibberish, Eomer understood only one word. The same word Indalecio had used to describe Loti. Whore. Well, now he knew four words in her language.

"Tell them I am your man!" He shouted, brandishing the sword point at another group of encroaching thugs. "Tell them!" The blood was racing through his veins, pounding inside the back of his skull and behind his eyes.

He heard her struggling to get the words out in a high, strangled voice.

"Tell them I will kill them if they try to take you from me!" He roared, his voice echoing off the stone buildings surrounding the square, "Tell them!" His entire body had gone numb, impervious to pain, ready for the battle, ready to kill.

The blood lust was on him, coursing through his veins and clouding his judgment; the compulsion to kill without compunction. The lust for blood and vengeance never really left a man. One taste was all he had needed as a boy. But once he had tasted it, like a wild beast, he craved for it and it overwhelmed him the instant he felt it. He had learned to recognize it and give in to the feeling. The next man he touched would die.

Over the years he had been in his share of knockdown, drag out fights; bar brawls, fist fights to defend his honor or a friend's, minor skirmishes with his Eored, and full on, life or death battles where he had been out numbered, out maneuvered, and over powered. These men were nothing but bullies and criminals; dishonorable and undisciplined, they were no match for a well trained, battle hardened soldier.

The gang of men must have realized this also, because after another quick exchange of words and threats, they gathered their fallen cronies and hastily disappeared back into the depths of the city, oiling their way through the street like greasy eels. Awkwardly, he returned the sword to his scabbard and wrapped his arms around the girl in reassurance, still pressing her body to his side for dear life.

"It's alright, they're gone," he soothed to the top of her head, stroking her hair. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?" When she didn't answer, Eomer took hold of her shoulders and pushed her away from his chest. "Why didn't you call out to me?" Again, she didn't respond. Her eyes were wide; sightless and blank. She looked beyond dazed; gone, like the essence of her being had shriveled and fled, finding refuge in the safe, unreachable recesses of her mind.

"Loti," he stooped to shake her gently by the shoulders and look into her face, "Loti." She blinked then, once, twice, and returned to him from wherever she had sought sanctuary. His hands cupped the side of her face and he stroked her bloodless cheeks with his thumbs. "Why didn't you call out to me?" He whispered again, coaxingly.

"I… I wanted to protect you. It…would have been over soon," was all she said.

"Are you hurt? Open up," Eomer demanded in a gruff, forceful tone, seeing the coppery stain of blood tinting her white teeth. His thumbs pried at her lips, pulling back the lower one to see the slice that ran red in the moist pink flesh of her mouth. Most likely she had been slapped, but bore no other outward signs of abuse or injury. Of that, he was grateful. "What do you mean 'over soon'? Has this kind of thing happened to you before?" He brushed back the stray hairs that had fallen across her cheek. Odd, she didn't cry, not a single tear. He had expected her to fall weeping into his arms.

"No, no of course not," she said, unconvincingly.

"Tell the truth! Don't lie to me!"

"No, E. I'm not lying. I'm—I'm so sorry. This is my fault."

"It is not! Never say that to me again!" he yelled, but then changed to a mild scolding, "Ghaw, girl, you're a fool," and drew her against him again, "Protect me? I've never heard something so foolish. You scared me half to death."

What an outrageous notion! That she should protect him! How could he have let this happen? It should have been _him_ protecting _her_, watching her closer, taking due care rather than assuming she was safe just because he was near. He should have listened, been more considerate when she insisted on wearing that ridiculous scarf. Instead, ignorance and ego had allowed her be seen in public improperly attired, and she had been humiliated, injured and assaulted. This was all _his _fault.

Loti's arms encircled his waist and she rested her head against his chest, letting him comfort her, enjoying the strength and certainty of his embrace. His heart still raced in his chest from the confrontation, she could hear its loud palpitations even through his chest plate, and he was hot from the unbreathing layers of clothing, mail, and armor. Droplets of sweat streaked from his temples, his hair was damp at the roots, he smelled strongly of cigar smoke, horse and unwashed, overheated male soldier and she wanted nothing more than to feel the inner joy of security she knew in that moment for the rest of her life. She snuggled against his broad chest as he smoothed her hair and back, stroking away her fears and inadequacies, replacing them with devotion, value of her self-worth and a tender kiss as his lips brushed the top of her head. Loti stayed clutched to him for a while, lulled by the rise and fall of his chest, just happy to be, just so eternally happy to have him.

Eomer's fingers tilted her chin, both pairs of blue eyes locking. Not quite smiling, not quite frowning he said wryly, "Maybe, we should buy you that scarf now."

"I don't understand why it has to be black," he said a few minutes later standing over her shoulder, supervising her selection of head covering at a small stall inside the bazaar, his usual tight lipped disapproving expression crossing his countenance. Rummaging through a table draped in an explosion of color and in jumbled disarray with scarves of every imaginable size and material, Loti stopped just long enough to look impatient. "Black is the color of a spoiled, unmarried woman," and turned back to her rootling.

"Spoiled?" His frown and the lines they made between his eyebrows deepened.

"Yes, spoiled, unclean. Me. Do I have to draw you a picture of what that means? Only a whore would go out, flaunting herself without her head covered," she snapped.

She saw his skin flush in the light from the lamps mounted on the stone walls of the bazaar.

"So you should advertise that fact to rapists and perverts," he mocked, sneering bitterly, "Why not? You've got nothing to lose I suppose, huh? And I'm the one called barbarian!"

Returning to her agitated digging, she bit out, "I'm lucky rape was all they wanted. They could have kidnapped me and no one would have noticed."

His hand seized her arm, jerking her attention back to his face, squeezing almost to the point of pain. "You think I wouldn't have noticed?" It was said in a whisper, but through tightly clenched teeth and a jaw grimly set. "Do you?"

People were beginning to look and a woman across the table, who had been warily eyeing Eomer for some time, hurried off.

"I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't," he retracted in a half apology, but still firm and fiercely intent.

"Eomer," she wriggled against his hold on her upper arm, "please. You're hurting me."

He let go of her as if she were riddled with disease, and took a half step back, giving them both space. After a minute of uneasy silence and more looking, he cleared his throat. "I like this one." He pointed to a gauzy cotton scarf in a dark raspberry, so thin it was almost sheer, embellished with beaded fringe. "The color, it…suits you," he finished, awkwardly.

"It is very nice," she agreed and sighed longingly with the want of it.

He snatched it from the pile. "Is this the one you want?"

"Well, yes," admitted Loti in all honesty, staring up at him, and only then realized what he was up to. "But, no E, it's not bla-"

"Stop it," Eomer snarled, his voice demanding compliance, "You shouldn't be forced to parade yourself around like you're harlot, like you're some gods damned diseased leper just because- Ghaw," he lowered his voice, "who knows about it unless you tell them? If you have to wear one of these," he gestured with the scarf balled in his fist, then flung it back on the pile, "fine. I don't want to see you hurt. But you are not one of them, you are one of us! If you want a black one, alright, that's your choice because you chose it. But for Bema's sake, girl, pick the one _you _want."

Loti took a deep breath. He could be awfully emphatic and irritatingly logical. She did desperately want that one, and he was right, damn his blood. No one would ever know just by looking at her in the street, and she would likely never leave the camp of come into the city without an escort. It was the paranoia with which she had lived with for years that kept her from changing her habits or deviating from the rules.

Now was her chance to throw caution to the wind; to throw off the bonds that kept her tied to another place—another life. Her fingers itched and her skin crawled with anxiety and she flicked her eyes around surreptitiously, looking to see if anyone was watching; remnants of just another old, bad habit. Somewhere deep in the illogical part of her mind, she thought Fat Fingers would jump out from behind the potted palm in the corner of the shop and drag her back if she picked any other color. To wear black meant she was marked, cast out to the fringes of society. And to be cast out meant that there was only one place where she could be accepted and only one man who would always take her back. She had let them manipulate her through that fear. But now…

Now she could say to hell with him, cast the bloody filthy pervert from her life as she had been cast from her own humanity. She was different, had a purpose, the possibility for a life and a future. And she would take it. Take back the last shreds of her dignity and character. Take it back from him, from them. She would never go back, never. She had given herself in to Eomer's keeping; given to him her trust, her loyalty and her life if he asked for it and, Valar willing, she would find peace with his people.

She would have what she wanted, starting today. Starting with that scarf…

Holding her breath, pink tongue wedged between her front teeth, she leaned over the table to claim it with her fingertips. It was long and wide, soft and delicately wrinkled, adding to its charm and beauty. It was also readymade of the finest Haradrim cotton, well crafted, and not inexpensive. One look at the pink crystal beads tassling the edges told her that.

Nevertheless, she swung it over her head, the beads clicking together musically, and draped the billowing ends over her shoulders. Having no mirror immediately to hand, she turned to Eomer for his endorsement or rejection. "How do I look?" She had no money. He was buying, after all.

On her, Eomer thought, the color was striking, igniting the cobalt of her eyes and the streaks in her sun lightened chestnut hair. It picked up the creamy pink rosiness in the apples of her cheeks, even under the bronze of her tanned skin, and almost matched the color of her full, soft lips. But she was beautiful on her own, and he didn't like to see her covered up in more clothes. He wanted to see her in less. Much, much less… Preferably wearing only a smile, and him.

Eomer shrugged, making a throaty noise. "What do I know about it?"

Loti made her own, more feminine noise. This coming from a man who had brushed and plaited her hair on several occasions, and according to stories, over indulged his sister, personally seeing she was properly outfitted for the royal court in Minas Tirith.

She gave him a gimlet eye. "I thought you said you had a sister?"

This time, the noise that rumbled from the depths of his chest as an acknowledging, "Mmphf."

"Don't listen to him, my dear," a high pitched, whiny voice said from the other side of the scarf laden table, "He's a barbarous, uncouth brute. You look gorgeous, simply fabulous!" A pair of big, smiling, slanted brown cat eyes was affixed to Eomer's body, scouring him up and down with what Loti could best describe as raw, naked, sexual hunger.

Brown eyes floated ghost like to Loti, satin slippered feet winking out from a resplendent blue silk robe. He was an elf; tall and slender, pointy eared and pale creamy skinned, his brown hair was pulled back from his face revealing ridged cheekbones tinged in pink and a high flat forehead. Long jangling earrings dangled from his lobes, elongating his already pronounced ears, tinkling with his every movement, and his wrists were slinking and chinking in gold bracelets.

"He wouldn't know the first thing about women, would you?" The elf's brown eyes were undressing Eomer somewhere about hip level. This comment had any number of meanings and connotations from polite inquisitiveness to potentially homoerotic!

Eomer shifted his weight; standing slightly kilted to one side, hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword, and gave an incongruous answer. "Somewhat more than I wish I did at times." Even elves with unnatural desires for his body didn't seem to bother him. He continued on tonelessly, asking, "You wouldn't happen to know a good dressmaker, would you?"

"What's wrong with my clothes?" Loti chirped like an agitated finch.

"You don't even have a change of clothes, girl! You've been wearing those same awful things for weeks now. You need a proper dress!"

"Ew ghad!" the elf exclaimed similarly, throwing an appalled hand over his mouth and appraising for the first time her state of disreputable dress from muddy boots to dirty kneed britches to unwashed, tangled hair. His finger waggled feverishly in figure eights. "No. No, no, no, no, no." Then in the brutal honesty befitting only homosexual elves decried, "I take it all back. Your man is right. You look dreadful. How could you let such a beautiful half elf be seen in public like she was just dragged out of her grave looking mostly dead?" His objection and quick temper now keenly fastened on Eomer.

"She was wearing exactly that when I came across her," Eomer defended himself. He snapped his mouth shut before adding, "I've been trying to get her out of those close for weeks." It was true enough, but no one else need know.

The elf clicked his tongue in impatient distaste and flicked a delicate white hand. "Ooo! What does a man know about it anyway? These," he paused for emphasis, making a face and plucking with revulsion at the lapel of her leather coat, "clothes, if I can even call them that, are an abomination to civilized society." He took a sudden tremulous gasp of breath, his hand madly fluttering over his open mouth, "You're not his lover are you?"

Eomer had the unfortunate sense to look abashed at this notion. "Ghaw, never!"

Placing a hand on a slim hip, the elf's demeanor changed drastically, eyes twinkling with renewed hope. He answered, "Oh! Well, then…" in the huskiest voice his high nasal whines could manage and he preened provocatively, sashaying his shoulders back and forth.

Loti and Eomer exchanged looks. His said, "You got me into this, you get me out," while hers said, "Me? How is this my fault?" A faint squeezing of his lips would have been missed by most people, but Loti, having spent far too many hours alone with her king, interpreted this as meaning, "Yes, it is. You know it. Do something about it now." The corner of her lip and eye met in a provoking smile that told him, "Aw, look, he likes you!" Eomer's face went blank as a canvas sheet, but his fingers drummed once on the pommel of the sword. In no uncertain terms that movement said, "I can still cut off your arm."

"Oh, um, the, ah, dressmaker?" She righted the conversation, smiling cheerfully, squelching the urge to kick Eomer in the shins.

"Dressmaker?" the elf said dazedly, still coquettishly batting long lashes at Eomer, "Oh! Yes!" Startled, he released his eyes from the object of his desires, practically with an audible sucking sound of extraction, and turned with a flourish back to Loti, blue robe whirling. "Come along with me, honey. I happen to know the most sought after dress maker in the city. He'll make you look fabulous!" His voice trilled in excitement

"Who?" she enthused as he put a thin arm around her, allowing herself to be lead into the shop.

"Why, me, honey! Who else! You're more than welcome to come along," the Elven dress maker invited, turning to make eyes at Eomer and openly peruse his muscular warrior's body again, "I could put a little something together for you. I have it!" His fingers danced in the air, bracelets ringing, and voice raising an octave, if that was possible, "A new pair of doeskin leggings, perhaps? Made to be worn nice and tight, hmm? All the men are wearing them that way now." Loti knew Eomer knew this was not the case. Men of the Haradrim wore a billowing, low crotched pantaloon, buckled at the waist that lent everything underneath to the imagination. His intentions to swath Eomer's loins were defiantly not the same. "Come along inside and I'll get you out of those clothes. I'll see that you're properly taken care of, don't worry." He twittered his fingers beckoning him to follow, the innuendo this time leaving nothing to the imagination.

Loti arched an amused brown at Eomer as the red flush of embarrassment covered his cheeks; the only outward sign of his unwillingness. "Thank you. Another time, maybe." Did the man not know when to shut up, she wondered. He was doing nothing to help his own cause, but Loti enjoyed seeing his perturbation in any case.

Put out, the elf pouted, clearly disappointed. "Suit yourself then," and flipped his brown haired tail over his shoulder with a flick of the hand, jingling an earring in the process. "Well, honey, here's what I'm thinking. Something in silk. A woman's body is a work of art! It should be displayed and flaunted not hidden behind a shapeless coat. And pants? Ugh! A man can see all your parts. You should always leave _something_ to the imagination. It keeps a man more interested. Look at your tiny waist! Hmm, a bit small in the bosom, though, but I work with that. At least you're not fat. Or ugly," he added as an afterthought, "Even a cow in one of my gowns is still a cow. Something simple and elegant, no frills. Good, I'm glad you agree. A girl as stunning as you, a gown should be an accessory for your body. You make the dress, it does not make you."

"No gowns," Eomer admonished sternly from behind, "Make it basic. It's an army camp. You're not being called to court in Gondor."

"You're really not coming with?" She was fairly certain he would not find the prospect of watching her be measured and fitted for a dress remotely entertaining, but she was surprised after what had happened in the street that he would consider leaving her side. It was exciting to have new clothes, and to have them made for her, but a small pulse of her heart made Loti want for his approval of the dress and for his company, indifferent though it might be.

"No," he said, "I have some things to do. I'll meet you when you're done." Bowing his head formally to both, Eomer took his leave.

She was still looking after him when the elf beside her coughed and asked hesitantly, "He's one of those Rohirrim? Sauron's balls, he's gorgeous!" He was fanning his flushed face with a dainty, manicured hand. "I don't suppose," the dressmaker began cautiously, "he'd be willing to have a meaningless fling with a certain elf, would he? Purely orgasmic, of course."

Loti tried not to giggle thinking about Eomer, who had healthy appetite for, and a bad reputation with women, locked in passionate embraces with this androgynous male elf. Or any male for that matter! "Oh, of course. But, no, I don't think so."

The elf pouted, "Oh, too bad. He's yours then?"

"Oh no," she denied, "I'm his, ah, servant." This seemed like the best and safest way to describe her relationship with Eomer.

"Well," he winked, "a girl can always try." But whether the girl in question was her or him, Loti wasn't sure.

Sometime later she emerged from the dressmaker's shop, her head and cheeks swathed in dark pink, to find Eomer resting against the gray stone blocks of a pillar, waiting for her and lightly swinging a small leathern bag. He gave her a school boy's sheepish half smile as she approached.

"He told me to come back later and that I should bring you, too!"

"No doubt he'd like to be paid by exchanging services." The dryness in his tone was noticeable.

Loti frowned, giving him a good tease. "Um, well, yes! I'm sure you could work something out with him! I think he had something of a barbarian fetish!"

"Mmhmm."

Now Loti frowned for real. He was awfully composed for a man who had recently been propositioned for sex by another person with the same reproductive parts. Eomer was a man's man, all cocky swagger and reserved taciturnity, and she was taken aback by his calm demeanor and blatant disinterest in the face of the subject. She had expected him to be insulted, infuriated, and repulsed.

Then a thought popped into her head, too shocked by it to even giggle. "Oh, no! No! Eomer! You haven't. Have you?"

"Bloody fucking hell, woman!" he exclaimed, posture indignant and facial features screwed up in abhorrence, "What do you take me for? I don't even enjoy buggering women! My asshole is exit only!"

A few tiny relieved giggles bubbled up. "Oh, good. So it did bother you then?"

"What did?" His voice had returned to its normal deep, raspy baritone. "The part about his cock up my ass?" He moved his shoulders like his armor had suddenly become too confining, or like he felt the loving touch of another male's fingertips across his back. "Yah, well, I suppose that part does. Otherwise, I've known his kind before."

"What kind is that? Elf-ish or unnatural."

"The kind that doesn't like women." He shrugged, noncommittally, "Only a fool believes it doesn't happen. He's not much different from me if you think about it, except for that one thing. Male elves can be just as depraved as men."

"You're the expert on depravity, aren't you?" she teased, "What's that?"

He held the small bag out to her by the strings, speaking as if the high collar of his tunic were too tight. "I got you a little something."

"Me!" She burst out in surprise, plucking the strings from his fingertips, "What is it?"

Yanking open the drawstring, she pulled out a flannel wrapped bottle, its heft weighty in her hand, and with it came the most amazing smell. "Oh, Eomer! You didn't!" she breathed in disbelief, her voice and eyes gone soft. But he had…

Why he had done it he wasn't really sure. The obvious answer was to add the remaining missing items that would complete her toilet. But that wasn't it... It wasn't because they were inexpensive, quite the opposite, really, and it wasn't like him to lavish women with gifts either. In fact, women came in and out of his life so frequently he never saw the point in buying them things. Except for his sister, and she didn't count. So why should he for this girl? Why indeed? Guilt because of what happened in the street? Pity? Because he wanted to? No, not guilt or pity—gods, she'd never accept it if she thought he had done it out of pity. Yes, it was because he had wanted to.

There was a growing gnawing in him, in his loins, his belly, his head, his chest. It had begun shortly after the end of the war and had grown stronger every passing week, no matter what he did to try to stop it, no matter how many women he laid or how much he had to drink. Confusing and disconcerting, it was what other men said he would feel as he got older. He knew what it was, could no longer deny its presence, his want of it, but, gods, he feared nothing more.

The scent of lilacs wafting from the perfumers shop had triggered a memory of her lovely round ass between his thighs and the soft rippling of her belly as she giggled. She had loved that bloody twig of lilacs despite his sneezing and itchy eyes, and was loath to part with it. It was the one thing he had seen with certainty made her happy. He thought having these things just maybe it might make her smile. And she had a pretty smile.

"Perfume!" she whispered, quickly uncorking and sniffing at the opened cut glass bottle.

"And soaps," he murmured, tugging at the mouth of the bag, indicating more treasures yet to be found. His eyes followed her fingers as she liberally dabbed the glass stopper behind both ears, along the thin skin of her neck and between the valley of her breasts. There was a lightness in his chest and an ache deep in his belly. Swallowing nervously, he decided this feeling he liked; that he could offer some one more than just the protection of his sword. Loti clutched the bottle in her hand and the bag to her chest, eyes glistening again with unshed tears, like sapphires under water.

"Oh, E."

"It's only soap." He raised his head and began looking around the bazaar, disinterested, but his heart smiled. She was just too grateful, too damn easy to please.

"You don't understand," Loti choked, swallowing a hiccup, "No one's ever—"

"Don't get used to it," he said, rigid as a wooden fence post, still refusing to look at her, and becoming a bit upset that she was on the verge of tears instead of smiling.

Her fingers reached out and locked on to the neck of his chest plate, drawing him, not with a little difficulty, down to her level. She stood on tip toe, cupping his face, her palm caressing his cheek and pressed her lips softly to his forehead. "You…" She trailed off, the remaining feeling and words of her sentence left unspoken. The touch of her lips was hot, burning like a branding iron into his skin.

You what, he wondered. You wonderful man? You backhanded jackass? Curious to know what she hadn't said, he was about to ask, "Me what?" when his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the gurgling and rumble of her stomach. "Hungry?" he smiled instead, grateful for chance to regain his composure before he let emotion take over and do something he couldn't take back. She did have an appetite to rival any soldier's.

"Starving," she blurted, "I forgot all about it!"

He was feeling a bit hungry himself, having had nothing to eat after a night of heavy drinking but two insignificant pieces of toast, a mug of tea and more whiskey. Straightening, Eomer adjusted the stiff leather chest plate, settling it properly over his shoulders and torso, and rearranged his face to its usual austere indifference. "We'll find something to eat, then come back," he elected, "Sounds good?"

XXX

Eomer hated coffee. The idea of whiling away the afternoon in a coffee shop drinking the bitter black stuff was not his idea of a good time, and he voiced this opinion, "I hate coffee." And with the objectionable clattering of sheathed steel, he dropped his sword and belt on the floor.

The coffeehouse was a simple but elegant establishment, carpeted in intricately patterned woven wool rugs. Oil lamps burned from the walls, adding to the rich, sophisticated ambiance of the place and small pillar candles sat in black wrought iron chandeliers hung from the wood beamed ceiling, dripping with wax and flickering like fireflies. Admittedly, the place smelled fantastic, all fresh ground coffee, incense and spices.

Several pairs of patron's surprised eyes swiveled to see the cause of the disturbance. He wasn't exactly inconspicuous here. In a land where a tall man was six feet high, he was a giant. In bare feet he stood just over six feet six, in boots, just over six foot eight. Even among the Rohirrim, who were tall people in their own right, his height was unusual. He was beginning to see now why the Haradrim told frightening stories about him. In their culture, a blonde, blue eyed, nearly seven foot tall man who rode a horse would be a freak or merely a legend.

"Why did you agree to this place then?" Loti asked, settling herself onto a large stuffed pillow around a small low table on the floor.

Eomer said nothing but felt mildly awkward sitting on the floor next to her with his elbow resting on one long, drawn up leg and the distrustful eyes of the other Southrons in the coffee shop settling on him, before darting away just as quickly. He was being watched, and knowing that made him anxious, but after a few minutes of observing the others, he relaxed. They were wary of him, not hostile.

Once seated they were seated a bowl of hot water and towels were set on the table for washing of the hands and after that was removed a small cup of mint tea for cleansing of the palate.

A cultural experience his friend Imrahil would call this. Imrahil would know; he was a man of the world, cultured, and well traveled. With the exception of a few occasions, Eomer had never been outside the Mark, never felt the nagging longing for his homeland, and never understood what it meant to be homesick. But he felt it now. He missed everything about it; the springtime smells of fresh cut wet hay in the fields and mud from the stable yard, the storm clouds that blackened the early summer skies, swimming naked in the cold waters of a pond or stream, herds of horses galloping far off in the distance against hills as green and vivid as emeralds, and cold nights spent under the quilts warming himself next to soft, willing woman. Most of all he missed the people; men and women who had known him since boyhood, those who called him friend instead of king, and strangers, whose heartfelt kindness would open their home, offering what meager hospitality they could to a passing soldier or traveler. He'd be glad to rid himself of this place come winter.

"Hmm?" She was asking him something.

"I said isn't Prince Imrahil a friend of yours?"

"Mmm, yah, why?" He answered, jockeying for a better position on the pillow.

"Well, won't he be upset you offered to sell your whiskey to someone else instead of directly to him? He'll have to pay more for it if he buys it from Indalecio, won't he?"

"Imrahil? Oh, don't worry about him. He's plenty wealthy. Besides, it would be rude to make a friend pay. I gave him six barrels to take home last summer. He's a connoisseur, anyway, he'll just let it sit and age. You'll meet him someday."

Just then two young boys in bare feet served them, laying on the table a large plate steaming with several individual dollops of what looked like various kinds of very thick stew, a smaller plate of warm flatbread and the crockery coffee pot with two cups. He looked balefully at the pot. No milk or sugar here apparently. Loti generously poured the coffee and handed him the cup. Sniffing at it first, Eomer decided it was safe and took a cautious sip. It was hot and strong and bitter, but mild and smooth without the harsh tangy bite he disliked about the drink.

Loti was already about the food, breaking off a piece of the flatbread and scooping up some of the stew with it. "Here, try this one," she suggested, scooting closer and offering him the first bite. He leaned quickly away, a combination of scorn and insult on his face, and she set the food down, her own features falling. She dropped her head and lashes, turning away so he wouldn't see the heat of embarrassment on her face. "Sorry," she murmured, "Force of habit." It was a feeble excuse, if not the truth.

Eomer was a proud man, independent, headstrong. She should have known he would never submit to eating from her hand. And who was she to presume? She was nothing more than a servant, a captive! Servant girls didn't feed kings and kings didn't eat from the fingers of servant girls. Sometimes it was so easy to forget that he was a king.

They were from two totally different worlds and that difference was a gaping chasm between them. He had said once, "We are not friends." And he was right because each would never fully be able to understand the other. _He is a lord, and a king, and what are you?_ She berated herself, her pride twisted and hurting. _You're a servant and a peasant. _Knowing that pained her since she did want to understand what made him and she did want his friendship. Sadly, when he was through with her here, Loti knew he would leave her in Rohan, in his home and take no more notice of her than any other of his servants. She would blend into the background of his life to be forgotten as if she had blended seamlessly into the walls or the floor.

His voice came brusquely from next to her, "I don't understand- force of habit."

She had removed the scarf from her head, as the few other women in the shop had, and her hair draped loose over her shoulders. A toss of her head revealed her cheeks again, but she had didn't meet his eye. "A woman," she started, then stopped. "It's not that you can't—of course I know you can, but-," she broke off again, smoothing all of her hair over one shoulder and running her fingers restlessly through the tangles. "A man shouldn't feed himself. It's a woman's duty to do that for him. I—it's out of respect! I want to!" All the words came out in a rush and a light sweat broke out over her skin in spite of the coolness inside the bazaar. She tried glancing up at him but quickly had to look away.

"And you want to do this?" he probed, mechanical as a war machine.

"Oh, yes, I do! I—You..." Loti took a deep breath of frustration. "You've been so good to me today, and generous, I thought… I just want to do something for you, that's all."

He breathed out sharply through his nose, then batted her sharply twice in the arm. Her eyes rose to meet his and, glancing down at the uneaten bit she had offered before, wiggled his fingers at her, capitulating. Exhaling in pleasant relief, she sighed, "Oh! Alright!" and resettled herself closer to him, feeling slightly unnerved, if only because of her proximity to his body and the intimacy of the act. Eomer leaned forward reluctantly, mouth partially and hesitantly open, looking very much like a condemned man about to be hanged as she popped the morsel in his mouth. He chewed.

Loti scooped some up herself, sniffed curiously at it before devouring the flavors of meat and salt, the texture and bite of vegetable and licked her fingertip, reminded of home and family.

"What is this? It's spicy." Eomer asked pointing at his mouth and speaking politely from the corner of it.

"Would it matter if I told you?"

He considered that while swallowing. Trained as a hardscrabble front line solider he'd likely eaten anything from raw fish to tree bark. "No. It wouldn't."

"I didn't think so," she gibed playfully, "But in case you wanted to know, I think that one is lamb."

They ate and drank companionably for a few minutes, the garbled chatter of the few other customers humming in the background. They were mostly speaking in tongues of the Haradrim, but another quick listen afforded him the sweet dulcet intonations of Westron from a gathering of people nearby. They were Haradrim, or at least of Haradrim decent, finely dressed in subdued dark linen, laughing raucously over a familial anecdote and in that moment it occurred to him how alike people were despite what seemed like outward differences.

He was eavesdropping, not very gentlemanly, but he was a barbarian, an unfortunate flaw in his character, no doubt. They were passing a baby around, cooing and patting its little bundled bottom, remarking how adorable she was in her tiny cap and gown, her mother and father beaming with parental pride. It could have been a scene pulled from any home in the Mark, from the most meager hut in some far flung village to a richly furnished urban estate. Another thought occurred of its own volition in his mind, a conjuration of the scene before him. Had Loti's parents not loved her in the same way as this baby? Had they not oohed and aahhed over her as well? And if so, how was it possible to give up such beautiful girl to that—life?—that she had lived? If he were a father, he could never bring himself do it. Did she have any other choices? She had grown up poor, that was certain, and with no father to hand for proper naming and legitimacy, her lot would be no better than her mother's.

Whatever life it had been for her had been cruel, that much he knew. He had tried asking he about it once or twice, but she had clammed up tighter than a miser on tax day. _A lot like you, eh, old boy?_ He realized with an ironic twist. But, she was stoic, young and damned bloody stubborn. He was hopeful she would find normalcy in time. Maybe. One day.

Then there was that queer feeling he got around babies, like a blunt stick poking him in the stomach, and a niggling that made him want to squirm like he had swallowed a serpent. _If he were a father…_ He had hoped to have had his own family by now, a wife and children, whose upraised voices would fill his home and seal over the void the deaths of his mother and father had left in his life. But there hadn't been time to put down roots, build loving homes and establish relationships. Hence the long line of disposed women who played the role of his missing wife, at least for the night they did. Years of war and sacrifice did that to a man he supposed, made him indifferent to his own selfish yearnings. Perhaps it was a lucky thing he didn't have any babies yet. He would have made a terrible father and an even worse example.

Finally, Eomer broke away from his melancholy thoughts, glancing next to him with a prompting, "What?"

Loti gave a tiny shy smile, trying to bury it in the mug of coffee. "What, what?"

"I can see you want to ask me something." He reached for the flatbread, tearing off a hunk. "What is it? Ah! What did you do that for?" he complained, dropping the bread and pulling his hand back as she slapped it, not lightly, in reprimand.

"Don't be difficult." Grabbing the bread, she dipped into another flavor or stew, cramming another large portion into his waiting mouth. This time, though, her fingers linger an instant too long, and he caught her fingertip between his lips, nibbling lightly on the soft fleshy pad and gingerly sucking the juices from it. Demurely lowering her lashes, she bit her lip, vainly trying to hide the smile that was blooming like jasmine in the morning. Almost without thought, she placed it between her own lips; lifting those bashfully flirtatious, almond shaped eyes to meet his own mischievous blue gaze. She sucked absently on the tip of her finger in such a familiarly seductive way he would have kissed her right then and there from lustfulness alone if didn't know the act completely innocent. It was innocent…right? For a girl who only recently thought he would rape and sell her as a concubine, she had finally become comfortable with him, able to let down her guard, and for that he was thankful. She was no different than any other young woman her age and probably wanted the same things. Now if only she would let _him_ become familiar with _her_…

She raised her shoulders, timidly. "Eothian said not to ask you anything personal."

He took a gulp of coffee after swallowing his food, visibly restoring his thoughts, letting it trickle warm and corrosive into his belly, and said, "Did he? I guess it depends on what it is. What do you want to know?"

"About your tattoo."

"What about it?"

She lifted one shoulder self consciously. "I just wondered how you got it."

Picking up his cup again, all he said was, "I was wicked drunk." But seeing this answer wasn't detailed enough for her satisfaction, he set down the cup and gave her a hard, incredulous blue stare. "Do you not know what men are like after battle? What they do?" he asked slowly. Her head shook back and forth bidding him to continue.

Eomer relaxed and shifted on the decorative pillow, looking as though he were trying to find the right words to explain. "You know how people act different when they're in a large group. They do things in a mob that they might never do alone. That mob mentality, it's a good thing to have going into battle. It makes men crazed and fearless. You can feel the men change as it runs through the ranks and you can feel yourself change, too. You're not you anymore, not an individual; you're just part of the mob. It becomes its own living thing." Pausing for a second, he snorted self deprecatingly. "And then you lose all fucking common sense. You're invincible, nothing can hurt you. Sometimes, I think that mentality keeps you going, keeps you alive, like there's some kind of safety in it. But after," he was spinning the cup between his fingers, gazing into its dark brown contents, "after is a different story. You're alive, and others, they're dead. The group becomes different then. You're glad you're alive, you'll go home, but no one speaks of it, like an unspoken guilt. It's like you become yourself again, in denial, so to find understanding or –I don't know what it is- relief, the mob just grows closer, more unstable. I think you do more damage to yourself after the battle is over than you do during it."

"Is that what happened to you?" She took a bite of bread chewing slowly.

Eomer appeared reluctant to say, but came out with it in any case. "Something like that."

Despite the oil lamps and multitudes of candles the lighting was still quite dim, casting short but bouncing dark shadows over walls, tables, and memories.

What was left of his men, for they were _his _men now, entered the White City from the plain below seeking food and shelter sometime after dark. It had been a long hard week in the saddle, barely stopping for any reason other than to tend the horses or to find brief respite in sleep, and the day spent on the battlefield had left him physically beaten and emotionally lost. He himself had been awake for the better part of two days.

After seeing that his stubborn, blockhead of a sister would survive her injuries and tending to the needs of his injured men, Eomer left the House of Healing in the small hours of the morning intending to discover the fate of some of his fellow Riders, namely Eothain, and convene a meeting of his uncle's, now his, guard. What he found instead was celebration.

They had always been a celebratory people, finding even the smallest reason to break open a keg. It was difficult to scratch out an existence in the Ridddermark, the physical labor of those endeavors taxing, and life short and precarious, especially in the most recent past. But this was not a stiff solemn celebration in remembrance of the fallen; this was a celebration of life and hard won victory. The streets were clogged with the Riders of Rohan, soldiers of Gondor and civilians. Beer flowed freely as the Rohirrim packed into the city's taverns, and poured themselves back out into the streets destined for happier hearths while the sounds of poorly sung drinking tunes reached out to him in the night like the hand of a siren, beckoning him to join in.

He was recognized, passed from hand to hand, drank toasts offered him and was relievedly reunited with Eothain who was playing an impromptu game of dice with Elfhelm, far too gone in his cups, and an expatriated artist from Harad.

"Eothain would make friends with a wicker basket, you know. I've seen him do it." Eomer joked dryly.

"So I've noticed."

Curious by nature, Eothain, through sheer friendliness and lubrication of drink, managed to extract that the man had some skill for tattooing. At first Eomer had refused any notion of being poked hundreds of times with ink filled needles, but by dawn, having made his way single handedly through a good portion of a barrel of ale, he was game for just about anything.

"Eothian went first. It was his idea, after all," He explained.

Elfhelm, Eothain, Eomer, and a few others staggered to the man's home, where Eothian was seated and prepared.

"He wanted his wife's name."

"Eothain? I've never seen Eothain with any tattoos? Where is it?"

Eomer face, its expression having been ridged and expressionless, split wide with a cockeyed, white toothed grin, "I don't suppose you would have. It's on his ass."

"Oh!" Her shoulders shook with restrained giggles, "What did his wife say when she saw it?" Loti had heard the stories about Eothian's wife, and from the sound of it, she was as bawdy as her husband.

"Probably still hasn't seen it. Cripes, that man has a hairy ass!"

"What about you," she asked, finally able to swallow back the giggles, "Why did you choose the horse?"

Sometime in the pre dawn dark, the king's standard had been thrust upon him, and he had carried it with a growing sadness, and an unwillingness to accept.

"By the time my turn came, I could barely sit up straight I was so drunk," he reflected. Stripping off his breeks, he sat clothed only in his tunic. Red eyed and jovial on the surface, but heartsick and sorrowful inside his chest, the pain he felt as the man set to his work was not of the body. The lone white horse was a symbol; of what he was, of how he felt. And then—

"And then what?" Loti asked cheerfully, licking her thumb with audible little sucking noises."E—and then what?" Her cheerfulness faded when she lifted her head.

He was at war within himself, the emotion of his expression telling everything and nothing, his lips set in a line that kept her out and the words in. His eyes, which he had let slip away, met hers again in earnest. The words he spoke were soft, but terse. "And then I did things."

_Do you not know what men are like after battle? What they do?... They do things in a mob that they might never do alone. _

An ambiguous answer for sure, but it wasn't hard for her to figure out what those 'things' he had done were.

He added with solemnity, "What I said about being glad you're alive... Men—after—they get—they want…"

"Oh, I see," she empathized. For a man who bedded and disposed of lovers as frequently as he did he sounded rather regretful.

He was nearing the end of what he was willing to share with her, wanting to tell, to relive, just not knowing how. _Don't go asking him about it, either. If he trusts you he'll tell you, otherwise, he'll just think you're being nosey and he won't like that._ How right Eothain had been. Now, he was going through an immense amount of change, visibly struggling with anger, sadness, resentment and hate.

Worried he might turn his feelings and frustrations on her, she put the mug in her hand back on the table. "Eomer," she soothed, placing an allaying hand on his knee, "You don't have to tell me anymore." And some of his uneasiness seemed to dissipate.

He wore his hair loose and unbound as he liked to do for important occasions and it fell around his neck and shoulders like silken strands of gold. Some of the strands were caught in his beard and with a tentative finger she brushed them away, a gesture of tenderness and affection for a man who so obviously needed it. His skin was pliant and damp, flushed with heat. She was then struck the need to say, "But if you ever do want to tell me…"

A big, rough hand settled over hers, its fingers wrapping around her fingers with an unexpected squeeze. His lips compressed and he nodded, sky blue eyes fixed on hers.

The corner of his mouth puckered. "I don't think they'll ever invite us back."

They were sitting very close, but he seemed to be moving imperceptibly and inexorable closer, drawn like a magnet to true north, as though he might want to do more than feel her hand on his knee. As though he might want to feel her lips on his. The thought of wanting it—him—his wide mouth, his smooth lips, his hard, wet tongue-made her flustered, and disconcertingly and deliciously warm. Loti turned her head away at once, an involuntary action to ease her butterflies, breaking their connection, and picked her cup up from the table to take another sip, inhaling the coffee's nutty bitter aroma. "Oh, yes? Why is that?" she asked breezily, trying to hide her flusterment.

"We drank the city dry in one day."

"Wait… That's why we had to wade through the Anduin, isn't it. Because you're afraid they're afraid you'll drink too much?"

Eomer shrugged, not really having an answer. "When they see any more than a handful of us they start hiding their woman and their beer. Not necessarily in that order, either." He brought the cup to his lips swallowing the last mouthful, his face back to its normal tight jawed stiffness with two deep groves slanted above his brows. "If you're finished there's one more stop we have to make." He threw some coins on the table as he stood. "And you can tell me about this gorilla person."

They ambled slowly through the bazaar, her arm linked protectively around his left elbow. She was blabbering on animatedly about something, gorillas, maybe, like never before; her free hand wildly fluttering as she spoke and flipping the end of the scarf over her shoulder once in a while. He answered when necessary in laconic monosyllables and indiscernible mmm's and mmhmm's. It didn't matter what she was saying. His mind was wandering, playing a dolorous game with his heart, remembering that cool March morning more than a year ago, and the days that followed.

The man Imrahil found him wandering the streets between taverns with Elfhelm and Eothain sometime in the afternoon, relieving the soreness of their fresh tattooings. He was plucked, not without a few choice words of disagreement on the part of his friends, from their amiable company and deposited into a room in the officer's quarters inside the city's barracks by request of his damnable sister. The tiresome wee bitch knew him too well, knew what he was up too, even from her sick bed.

Only when the door opened and a tub and steaming buckets of hot water were brought in did he realize he was still covered in the filth and blood from the previous day. As he began to undress there was a sound at the door, and sunlight from the lone widow over head illuminated the figure of a girl. She was a demure looking creature, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Tall and hippy, with mousey brown hair and delicate features, she had skin with a yellowish tinge, striking green eyes, like that of a cat, and wore the white kirtle and wimple of the House of Healing.

"I've b-been sent to help you, my lord," was all she said.

Her fingers were nimble and agile, working the buckles of his arrayment and the lacing of his clothing far better than his own drunken fingers could have. The water of the tub was hot and pleasant as he sat allowing the healer girl to pour water over his shoulders and neck, and wash his hair. She lathered a sponge and he stood in all his naked pride as she lathered him, washing away the days of dirt from riding and the grime of battle, taking extra care along his raw, reddened thigh. He slumped down into the comforting water as far as his long legs would let him, soaking, while she massaged his neck and shoulders with deceptively strong hands, dimly aware in his intoxicated, relaxed state of a growing ache and a tightening of his loins.

"What are you doing?" He moaned huskily, so softly as nearly a whisper, his eyes closed.

"Are you not pleased, my lord?" She asked timidly, "Do—do you want me to…stop?" She moved to pull away, but she was caught before she got too far.

"No," he said almost begging and rested his head into the crook of her neck, "Don't stop."

One of her hands, cool and white against his hot flushed skin, lay splayed across his chest as she bent over him and the other had dipped beneath the water. He took her fingers, encircling him again, moving his hand with hers to teach her how he liked it.

How long had she been touching him? Did it matter? All that mattered now was that he wanted her. Not just wanted, needed. And needed so badly.

"Don't stop."

He lifted his head, pulling her lips to his by the back of her neck, in the barest of kisses. And then again and again, parting her lips to brush his tongue to hers. She tasted like oranges and ginger and smelled of lime and herbs. Basil?

Eomer rose naked from the water, dripping, in a half dreamlike state. Was he sure it was water beading in runnels down his body? Or was it blood or sweat? The cold hand of death had not come for him the day before, had not seized him from the field of battle to place him alongside his ancestors in whatever afterlife lay in store for him, but death's erstwhile companion did. The bleak advancing darkness, like the coming of midwinter's night, had finally caught him up. It did as it had always threatened, gripping him about the heart in its iron fist, beating him as he lie injured and broken. Dragging him like a mortally wounded beast over the edge of sane thoughts and rational decisions closer to his ultimate destruction. Recklessness and carelessness ruled in the void of his darkness, nothing else belonged there.

The girl held out her hand, drawing Eomer into her embrace. Young and pretty, it was the girl in the white gown who summoned him back into the light. It was she, her presence, her body, her life, who had the power to bring him back from the edge and the dark.

Pulling the wimple from her head, he flounced her riotous brown curls with his fingers to frame her thin face. Even in the hazy cloud of his drink addled mind he was able to unhook the fastenings of her dress, letting it fall to her waist, then hips and then to pool on the floor. He lifted the heavy weight of her breasts in his hands, felt the smooth arch of her back and grabbed the soft mounds of her backside, grinding into her belly, forcing her to feel the strength of his erection, the power of her body over all that was his.

She dropped to her knees, his cock quivering, and his buttocks tight as she offered him her mouth, loving him gently and completely in the most carnal of ways.

He lay down next to her on the bed in the corner of the room, the warm rays of sun dappling their skin, kissing and fondling, finding her nipple with his mouth, parting her legs for more. His hand cupped between her thighs, his fingers finding her moist with want. The tips of his fingers, slick with her wetness, slid over and over the spot that made her moan. Her legs spread wider, her hips thrust against his hand, her fingers dug into the muscles of his back and arms, she writhed next to him in anticipated pleasure, his throbbing erection rubbing the side of her thigh until she shook, clawing at him and squealing against his chest. Gently, easily, he slid one finger, then two inside her, feeling her convulsions, stroking her until the last of her spasms ebbed.

Eomer rolled to lie between her spread legs, pressing his weight along the length of her slender body, smoothing the tangles of curls from her cheeks. "Don't be afraid," calmly, sweetly, he whispered reassurances, "I promise—I promise to love you well." And slowly, tenderly, he joined his body with hers.

She was paradoxically, both exquisitely tight and wonderfully soft. He hadn't thought to stop-didn't think to ask. In the distant, lucid recesses of his mind, clear of the dark, full of the light, he thought, _Oh, she's a virgin. _He tried to go slow, tried not to hurt her, but, oh, gods, how could he not. He wanted to make her first experience memorable; giving as she gave to him, but letting her do the taking. There were few times, if ever, he made love to a woman, but he did to this one, slow and languid, offering for her pleasure what little of his manhood he had left. He brought her once again over the edge of pleasure before finding his own inside her, his cries muffled by her hair. In those moments after, in the drowsiness of euphoria, he loved her.

Had Imrahil sent her here, asked her to comfort him? Had she come to replace his grief, his sorrow, his self pity—his darkness-with her touch and her love and her light? Did the Prince know that it was only a woman who could heal him? That she would cast out his demons, distract him, if only for one day. If Imrahil had, Eomer was grateful. He had needed her, needed a woman to comfort his soul. This girl, who had never felt a lovers touch, knew the art of healing a man's heart.

They curved around each other, his arm safely tucked under her breasts and her bottom fitted snuggly against his hips as they slept under the quilts, perfumed with the scent of their bodies and love making. Later, in the middle of the night, she woke to the sound of his weeping. Gathered into his lover's arms, she made small shushing and crooning noises as he wept into the curve of her slender neck. And only then did he give up the pretense of warrior and king, allowing himself to grieve. Gradually, by her presence alone, she eased his suffering, and he made love to her again in a way so pure, so powerful, he thought they both died for the tiniest of instants, entangled in a lover's embrace of body and soul, as they came to each other, offering her again the life of his seed.

He left their room only to attend his duties, returning as soon as he might to find her ready, waiting to fulfill him all over again.

When the day of their parting came, he could say nothing. What could he offer her that was not a lie? To say thank you would be an insult. I love you? I will return to you? For surely, he would not. In a few days he would be dead, but, deep inside as the light began to fade, he hoped that she carried with her a part of him that would live on when he was gone.

He did not die though, and returned to the city intending to make reparations to the girl's father. On the whole, he did not like virgins, not just because of their inexperience, but because he felt unworthy. In the Mark, the loss of one's physical purity was a rite of passage, but here in Gondor, no man would have her as his wife. As a man of honor, he could not live knowing the truth. She had given him a gift that was not his to take.

She was already gone from the city, though, by the time he came back from Cormallen, returned to her family's farm. His time with her had been too short.

"It's already taken care of," Imrahil had said when he had suggested it, "Put her from your mind, son. She's a peasant girl. Come, I want to introduce you to someone. Her father is one of the Dunedain."

For a few, short, passion filled days, he had been whole. But now the light was gone, extinguished by the dark.

Another girl was speaking to him now. "Oh, E! Please! Please!"

Her fingers were interlaced with his hand, gripping tightly, and she was bouncing on her toes with his arm pressed to her chest. He looked at her askance, lids creased into blue slits. "I didn't know you were so expensive to maintain."

Loti looked hurt. "I didn't ask you to buy me any of those things today!" She argued in her defense, "And you won't give me any money so I have to ask, don't I!"

"Does that belly of yours have a hole in it? How can you eat so much?"

"Tapeworms," she answered smugly, "I'll wash your clothes."

Eomer made a guttural noise and looked stubbornly barbaric. "You already do that."

"So it's a deal then!"

How could he say no when she looked at him that way with her big blue eyes. Feeling her breasts against his arm didn't hurt either. "Fine," he sighed, resignedly, "But if you get a belly ache I don't want to hear about it."

She crooked a slender finger and he bent reluctantly, receiving as his reward a peck on the cheek.

XXX

"Where are we going now?" muttered Loti, a buttery piece of one of the candies she convinced him to buy melting in her mouth. She had eaten a few chocolates too, but was saving the rest to share with Eomer later.

"A sort of friend."

"Here? How do you know anyone here?"

The stone cobbled streets they were trekking down were much less crowded, but Eomer was still keeping her possessively close at hand.

"He's a Gondorian," Eomer explained, "Came north to serve in Gondor's army during the war. I met him on the Cormallen after. His wife is Haradrim. Ghaw, it's hot! It's like breathing underwater."

He had that right. The afternoon was unusually oppressive for late spring despite the fresh ocean breezes that stirred their hair. Wisps of feathery clouds, like horses tails, waved motionless in the sky; according to Eomer, a sign of good luck. Unfortunately, those omens of good fortune meant no immediate change in the weather.

"Gondorians? Here? Why wouldn't they live in Gondor?"

Eomer smiled with a flash of teeth, "I guess love is blind, huh? I'm not sure I get what's so great about these southern women." His teasing earned him an annoyed look. "He's a sympathizer."

Loti exhaled. Typical Eomer; he boiled everything down to the point in the fewest words possible.

"And that means…" she persuaded.

"There's Gondorian sympathizers in Harad, just like there's Haradrim sympathizers in Gondor. That's just how men are…any time you've got conflict you're bound to have somebody who empathizes and takes up with the other side. Nobody wants to fight, but everybody has a different idea of what peace is. It's that stubbornness that leads to war a lot of times."

"And the other times…"

Eomer appeared to approve of this line of questioning because his eyebrow quirked up. "Ego, don't you know."

As it turned out, Eomer's friend was a blacksmith by the name of Tinnyn. A tall, skinny man of about forty with a distinctive limp earned from battle, his forge and stables were located down an alley that opened into a good sized cobbled courtyard.

"Still haven't settled down yet, eh?" Tinnyn asked, propped up against one of the pillars holding up the roof over his smithing area, a mug of homemade hoppy ale in his fist, and veins bulging from his sinewy, bare forearms. Their reunion had been quick and pleasant, and they had relaxed into male familiarity.

Eomer leaned against the pillar opposite his friend, sipping his own beer. "Haven't found the right girl yet," he smirked.

"Well, that's bullshit," the blacksmith scoffed, "Got your pick of any one you want. Nobody's feeling sorry for you, old boy. How you staying warm on those winter nights?"

"What do you think the whiskey is for?"

Tinnyn cackled, appreciating the sarcasm or the properties of good Rohirric whiskey, "Well, I'll tell you something, pick you up one of these southern women to take home. It'll be easy for you; they love the boys with the blonde hair and blue eyes. They think it's exotic." He leaned in wearing an expression of fulfilled satisfaction and spoke in hushed tones as though to keep her from hearing. Loti didn't know why, she could still hear him loud and clear. This wasn't Tinnyn's first mug of ale this afternoon, perhaps. "Ooo, I tell you what, they're wild under the blankets. Not like those prudes in Gondor. Not a day goes by when I don't regret it. Neither would you." Tinnyn winked and tapped his mug to Eomer's before resting back against his pole.

Loti who had been poking around the forge, and snooping unobtrusively through the blacksmithing impedimenta, felt crawling up her spine, as if there were eyes on her. She raised her head without hesitation to look into the pale blue depths of Eomer's gaze. The instant their eyes met, he looked away, assuming a casual non chalantness, but she had already seen the tenderness and confusion in his eyes. Her body came alive with tingles and thrills, like licking tongues of flame and her heart felt like a lump in her throat.

"How did it turn out?" Eomer was saying.

"Hmm," Tinnyn tipped the rest of the ale down his throat and said, "Let me go fetch it, eh?"

With his friend gone Eomer stepped over to the work bench and hefted a sizable iron square headed hammer used for the first crude shaping and pounding of metal.

"Thinking about changing professions?" Loti asked dryly, sidling up next to him.

He let the mallet fall limply from his hand, handle over head. "Don't think I'd be suited for it?"

Loti thought about those vein popping forearms and broad back, imagining him dressed in the leather apron and thick gloves of a blacksmith, hammering and shaping, changing a cold blob of steel into something unique, practical and artistic with the finesse unusual for a man of his size. Oh, yes, he'd be suited for it.

"Not particularly," she flipped, just to be difficult and leaned against the workbench, under the shade of the roof, crossing her arms and dropping her satchel carefully to the ground. Full of her vanity set, soaps and her new dress, it was beginning to hurt her shoulder. Her new pink scarf followed, folded neatly into a square and set on top of her satchel.

"Mmmhmm," he sounded as dubious as he looked, shooting her the 'you're joking, right?' narrowed eyes. Absently picking up the hammer again for something to fill his hands, he said, "If I hadn't been born a-," he glance down at himself, continuing, "lord, I would've been a blacksmith."

"Really?"

Eomer nodded introspectively. "Yah. Yah, I would've."

In all honesty, she was not surprised by this after watching him dig ditches, shoe horses, haul water and pitch tents. Unfortunately, he was a yeoman born a noble. A simple man was Eomer. One who never let another man think he was better just because of his title, a man who owned little but cherished every meager possession, a man who afforded himself only one luxury of his station; a chuff filled mattress over a sizable camp bed.

His lip lifted in a shrugging sneer. "Ah, well," and tossed aside the hammer like he had so many other dreams.

"Here we are!" Tinnyn called as he stepped out of the stables clutching a long, skinny canvas wrapped object and they all stood back as Eomer uncovered it. Loti heard the distinct tinny clink of metal on metal and saw the long leather bound handle of a sword in a finely crafted leather scabbard. He withdrew the blade part way and then completely as it sparked like polished silver. It was a short weapon, almost saber like, hardly appropriate for a man of Eomer's monolithic stature, with a slightly curving single edged blade, and angled tip.

"Folded a thousand times," Tinnyn stated proudly.

"A thousand!" Eomer's face looked pleasantly surprised. "Huh!"

"What are you going to do with that little thing? Use it as a knife?" she wondered.

"I'm not doing anything with it," He thrust the sword at her, pommel first, blade tucked under his arm, "but you will."

"Me?" She said, nearly laughing.

"Take it," he demanded, "Hold it down by your side." When she didn't move fast enough his impatience took over. "For gods sakes, girl." He grabbed her hand, plastering her fingers around the handle and, like a puppet master, positioned her exactly the way he wanted, index finger against the guard, arm stiffly straight at her side.

Tinnyn congratulated them both, admiring the sword's length, which came to her ankle. "Perfect! Pretty good for a guess, old boy."

"How does it feel?"

It was so light in her hand, it could have been weightless. "Good."

"Don't go getting any of those shield maiden ideas in your head. You've heard too many of them stories," he scolded mildly, "I had this made for your own protection. After what happened today… I'm glad I did." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the open courtyard. "Go. See how you like it."

It was a two handed sword; a good thing, too, since she had neither the strength nor the stamina to wield it one handed. It was also well balanced as she brandished it; right hand at the guard, left at the pommel, the tipping point. Lunge, parry, slash, and Loti spun, swinging it in an arc over her head, poised to deliver her invisible rival a death blow but spotted a much more interesting and fleshy foe, hitting it with a resounding _thwap_.

"Bitch!" Eomer bellowed, his rich baritone voice thundering off the stone buildings. He whirled around angrily, hand on his ass, while Tinnyn cackled merrily, turning red in face. Loti, half stooped, giggled ferociously into a cupped hand. He lifted and eyebrow. "Oh…That's how it's going to be?" He moved with the practiced grace of a dueler into the open, making a production of pulling Guthwine from its scabbard. "Smack me in the ass while my back is turned, will you. Dishonorable wench, I'll make you pay for that." A smile lit both his mouth and eyes.

"Aren't you afraid I might try to kill you again?"

"Well, if you do, then I'll deserve it."

"Even up the odds, old boy!" Tinnyn called from the vicinity of the forge, rather enjoying the show. "Give the girl a fighting chance. Don't you worry; I'll bear witness to your humiliating defeat! The mighty King of Rohan brought down by a mere girl!" He taunted.

"Alright," Eomer agreed, ingratiatingly rolling his sword into the other hand, "Left handed, then. And I'll keep the right behind my back. Fair enough?"

"I accept the terms of your challenge, sir," she said with mock sincerity.

Completely unnecessarily, he bowed formally to his opponent. "I'll try not to kill you."

Loti got the drop on him, swinging in quick slashing arcs, making him parry every blow. He shuffled back five or six paces, observing and learning about his opponent before stepping into his next swing. Steel met steel in mid air with the fierce grinding sound of grating metal. The blow caused her fingers to ache and burn with numbness but she met his attack again and again until the edge of his sword slid the length of hers. He used his advantage of height and weight to lock their blades at the hilt. Much stronger than she, he kept the pressure on, but Loti refused to give up so soon or so easily.

"You should give up now before you embarrassed yourself," she warned through gritted teeth.

He began poking her in the ribs with his right hand, stirring her up with yelps. "I've. Got. You!"

She was breathing hard with suppressed laughter and Eomer could feel her weakening. He lessened the pressure on her blade, allowing her to escape, fleeing backwards.

"I thought you said you knew how to use one of these? Never let get that close! I could've spit you like a pig with a knife!" There was no real malice in his voice but, seeing the tension in her shoulders and fire in her eyes, she was brooding. "Relax. Stay in control. You're not as strong as me, but that doesn't mean you can't beat me. Remember what I said about being built for speed? You'll never be able to overpower me, so don't. Try to wear out a bigger opponent, eh?"

She was on him again, hacking and slashing, smartly going for his thighs and torso. But he could see her form failing as she became emotionally involved, not remaining calm and detached. Eomer stepped into her next swing, sweeping her blow aside, and bringing his body as close to hers as he could. He looped a foot behind her leg, placed his fist into her chest and pushed. She fell backwards, tripping, landing on her bottom in the cobbled street. The sword clattered across the stones out of her grasp and she went for it, but his large boot caught her square in the chest, pinning her to the ground. Loti whipped her head from him to the sword, lying only inches away wriggling her fingers, arm stretching as far as possible trying to reach it. Then she felt something at her cold and sharp breast bone, cold and sharp.

"Say it," he ordered.

She tried to sit up, but his filthy boot was still in her chest, so she settled for raising her head and glaring up the nearly seven feet into his face and flaring her nostrils. He moved the sword's tip so it grazed the exposed top of her left breast. His voice had sounded dangerous, but the crooked smirk growing on his lips was anything but.

"Say it," he repeated, a hint of a smile creeping into his deep voice.

Resigned, Loti relaxed, closed her eyes, made a few gurgling noises, rolled her head to one side and let her tongue loll out of her mouth.

"Look, you frightened her to death!" She heard Tinnyn laughing over her pitifully fake death.

"Hmm," Eomer said thoughtfully, crouching beside her. "I'll check the body for signs of life."

She squirmed and yelped, slapping at his hands as his fingers tickled her belly, their giggles and laughter blending together.

"Should I find a healer for you, maybe?"

Her face lit with a smile so big and bright it made his heart hurt. Had they really come this far? From wanting to kill each other to joking and playing like children in the street.

"You are brave, girl. I'll give you that," he said admiringly.

His hand hadn't moved. It still rested solid and open on the flat of her belly in mute dominance. "And you are surprised by this?" She was becoming increasingly unsettled and tense by the weight of his hand. Her breasts felt suddenly very heavy under the light weight of the linen shirt and her nipples tingled to the point of discomfort with the need to be suckled. This must be what desire feels like she decided, what other girls feel in the presence of attractive men. Not just the need, the want to be touched by a man, to know a man deeply both emotionally and physically. It was an entirely different sort of intimacy than she had known in the past, not forced but anticipated, and she was enjoying the warm, liquid feeling between her legs, secretly hoping to feel the touch of his fingers there against her bare flesh.

"You know, the conqueror usually expects some sort of tribute from his conquered opponent."

"Oh, yes?" She wondered facetiously. "And what would you have of me, my lord. What more should I do for you?"

Eomer pursed the corner of his mouth as he thought. "I haven't quite figured that out yet, but when I do, I'll let you know."

Loti sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, trying to bite off a few nervous giggles, but when they couldn't be suppressed, she turned her head and giggled instead into the back of her hand. He pulled gently at her wrist, taking it from her mouth, asking, "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Hide your smile. It's very pretty." It was impossible not to hear the tenderness in his voice.

Even now she felt her lips rolled firmly under her teeth. Preconditioned to hide her emotions, inscrutability had become a defense. Letting a man who was not her target see her laugh or smile was a weakness, an invitation to unwanted advances from unwanted men.

She didn't know if she could trust Eomer enough to tell him the truth, though, so she squirmed a shrug. "I don't know."

He had laid her hand over her belly, but his fingers still circled her wrist.

"You're not still afraid of me are you?" He pressed, "I promised to care for you. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Is that out of obligation or duty?" She joked.

"Niether. It's out of love," he said in all seriousness, his voice hard, firm, commanding, yet barely above a whisper and underlined with compassion and truth, "It is an honor to serve and protect you. It is my privilege to die defending you and all that you hold dear. If I ever forsake this vow may I die in disgrace and dishonor, be denied proper burial and be cast out of eternity to walk forever in neither light nor shadow. May I have your blessing and that of my forefathers to act on your behalf as your king. As we are one people, blood of my blood, and I your leader by right of my birth, this is the oath I swear to you."

His heavy northern accent made the words seem even more romantic, in the chivalrous sense of the word. "That's very nice. What is it from?"

"It's from the oath taking. Or what part I remember of it anyway." He shrugged in an apathetic sort of way. "I had a few too many when I said it. It's what the Kings of Mark swear at their coronation." He dismissed this with a wrinkle of his nose and a shake of his head. "I should've said it to you before."

Loti was now convinced what she had been told about him, the stories, the rumors, were not true. EomerKing was a good man and utterly selfless. He held her life in the palm of his hand, yet never bargained with it. He could crush her, use her, destroy her with a single word, but, despite his threats to do likewise, he would never be able to bring himself to do it. Cruelty and hate were not in his nature. He had his demons, true, but so did she.

There was still the one thing that bothered her; the wound that broke open raw and painful whenever she thought about it, as it did now. What had become of her brother? Had Eomer killed him like she had been told? She was desperate to ask, to even hear word of him, but didn't want to ruin the day with somber thoughts or talk. It was likely she would never know the truth of his fate.

He said, somewhat stiffly, "You've…been a great help—over the last few weeks."

"It is my pleasure to serve you, my lord," she said airily. Then with a start, she realized they had forgotten all about Tinnyn and shot a hurried glace across the empty courtyard in the direction of the smithy.

Tinnyn was gone. They were alone.


	10. Chapter 10 Loti meets a Horse Lord

A/n: Hello again, and thanks for reading. I appreciate all of the comments that reviewers have left. It is a help especially when I am feeling insecure ( as all writers probably feel from time to time ). Please feel free to click the review button at the bottom of the page. Even if you think your input is not important, believe me, it is.

Just as a side note... I think eventually I will go back and rewrite chapters 2,3, and maybe 4. I would like to submit this story to the MEFA awards and I think those are the weakest chapters, wereas to stand apart from other romances, they need to be the strongest to capture people's attention. Let me know what you think of this...

Some insight into Eomer's background and thoughts and beliefs at the end of this chapter, and advancement of the subplot. A bit of foreshadowing too, just to make you want to read further chapters. LOL

Hopefully my attempt to make these people and places seem real is working.

Hope you are entertained, DD.

* * *

Breakfast was always the most interesting part of the day.

Most days, Loti woke before dawn, ordered the tangles of her hair and washed her face with water collected daily from the river and stored in large oak barrels. After making herself as presentable as water, a hairbrush and a cake of soap could manage; she would amble her way towards the smell of frying food. The cook, a grizzled, old, dark haired man with a patch over one eye, would give her a plate with a single hardboiled egg, an oatcake, and a slice of ham accompanied daily by an innocently vulgar remark and a familiar pat on her bottom with his wooden spoon.

Today was no exception.

"Such a fine small ass you have," he observed in heavily accented Rohirric as she scooted with a jump out of the reach of his groping spoon, "But you need fattening up!" And he generously handed her a brown wooden bowl full of very dull gray oatmeal.

_Like a sow_, she thought doubtfully. She would have preferred another egg instead, but then thought of the livestock boy who was obliged to hunt up the eggs laid willy nilly by the chickens throughout the camp. No point in making him work any harder than needed.

Cheerfully accepting the bowl, and barely dodging a squawking chicken making a heroic, yet thwarted attempt at flight, Loti took a seat on the bench, sliding in next to one of Rohan's finest young men. There were eight in total, comical, good natured chaps, all of about eighteen or twenty, recently returned from their overnight duties. She slid the oatmeal bowl between her and the young man beside her with whom she had developed a real friendship—the red headed boy. The red headed boy had a given name, Glullyn, but, in the uncreative and unimaginative way of men, they simply called him Red. They had become quite fond of one another, and Loti found he was becoming quite handsome with his fair skin burnt golden by the sun and his hair in strands like fire about his shoulders. He didn't yet have the ruggedness or sheer size of a man like Eomer or Eothian, but nonetheless everyday he seemed to be losing his childish looks in favor of more masculine ones.

His blue eyes widened at the sight of more food, and he smiled gratefully and not with a bit of flirtation.

"How do you rate?" One of the boys at the end of the table complained light heartedly.

"Quit your gripping," Red tossed back in his odd accent and colloquial way of speaking, "The old bugger would give you an extra bowl, too, if you grew a pair of tits as nice as hers!"

This they found exceedingly funny.

"Oh! So you've seen them, have you then? What would you say then? A handful or a mouthful?"

"Well, if I have seen them, I wouldn't tell you, now, would I?" Red replied, neither confirming nor denying. The truth was, he had seen them, or more accurately, one of them, but so had Eothian and Eomer, and they weren't saying anything either.

They ate by torch light as the sun was only now promising to come up, sharing the contents of the hot, sticky bowl companionably. Loti didn't speak. She never did. She preferred to listen and absorb as much entertainment as possible before she began her duties for the day, which for the most part were boring, tedious and lonely.

"I should go." Loti nudged him when the bowl was empty. The early summer sky in the east was beginning to glow with pinks and lavenders and golds as the sun's yellow disk was just crowning the horizon. Eomer would be awake by now and ready to dictate his orders for the day.

"You want I should come find you later?" He turned to her, speaking in a low voice.

She nodded, biting off a smile, "Mmhmm."

Red did smile, his eyes lit with kindness as he squeezed her knee in farewell.

XXX

Eomer's tent was of a good size, larger than most of the other tents his men shared, crammed in cheek by jowl as they attempted to escape the unrelenting sun of the day or the oppressive blanket of heat at night. There was considerably more open space around his tent, too, and a well used fire pit where some of the Horse Lords would sit, entertaining themselves at night.

She never thought of herself as one who scampered, but she did so now, expecting to find Eomer coming back half naked from the privy, he didn't like emptying a chamber pot and neither did she, or sitting on a log by the fire after another sleepless night, discommoded by her late arrival. He was perhaps the most predictable, regimented man she had ever known. Most mornings she would find some of his guard, Bram, maybe, or his identical twin brother, Gram, milling about the fire that burned both day and night, smoking a pipe or doing some other kind of busy work. Today, though, it was unusually quiet and she halted abruptly, feeling a bit queer. There was no one about on this morning.

His boots were gone. When she finished polishing them late in the evening, she had found Eomer asleep, face down in his pillow, arm hanging off the bed and snoring softly. So she had left them outside the tent entrance, not wanting to disturb his much needed slumbering. He rarely slept well, and when he did it was fitful and restless.

_Well,_ she thought dismissing any peculiarities, _he could have gotten up in the middle of the night to visit the privy or take a walk or simply sit by the fire muddling with his thoughts. _

Taking a step over an anchoring tent rope, she tucked her bangs behind on ear and stepped purposefully towards his quarters. A sudden sing song, "Hey! No! Nah-ah-ah!" brought her attention fully around again. Eothain was trying to sneak up behind her, hastily running in an exaggerated, slow motion, tip toe fashion, looking like a top heavy, drunken whooping crane with elbows out and knees lifting to his chest. "Come away from there!" He coaxed, traipsing through the fire pit area to catch her up, "No great need to wake anybody up so early is there?"

Loti looked up at the lightening sky. So early? A good half hour of day light had already been wasted and, ignoring Eothain and his curse, threw open the flap of Eomer's tent, barging in.

She immediately barged back out.

She let out a high pitched noise of shock as she stared wide eyed at Eothain's feet, her belly clenched tight and lurching over like an agonized dying man. For a moment, she thought the entirety of her breakfast might come up. Eothain was staring at her, serious and hard, watching her reaction, but then lifted an eye brow inquisitively. "Is…everything alright?" He asked slowly.

"If it is now, it won't be for long," she gritted through her teeth, then turned the full force of her five feet two inches on giant like Eothain. "You're as much to blame for this as he is!" She gestured at the canvas tent with a finger, speaking in a viciously loud whisper.

"Me?" He breathed equally as loud. Loti suppressed a gag. Drunken whooping crane was right! His breath smelled like a brew house.

"Who else? You encourage him, and then do nothing to stop him! I already warned you all about doing," she shook an open hand at the tent again, "that!"

"Ah, girl, you're going soft in the head." He waved her concern away with a hand as if he were swatting flies. "It was just a little trip into town, that's all. No harm done."

"No harm done!" If there _was_ harm to be done, it was going to be done to Eothain very quickly. "Go back to bed, Eothain," she chided with condescension, "You've done enough for one day."

He did go then, muttering a disgusted, "Ah, what do you know? I'm only his best friend, eh? Don't say I didn't warn you."

She gradually eased open the tent flap letting the sun's hazy rays spill into the still dark tent, not knowing what to think or to feel. Anger, frustration, betrayal? Jealousy. She was feeling that one for certain; the loops and whorls of its fear and resentment constricting heart and belly and a rise of scorching heat from toes to fingertips as all her blood ran to the surface.

Her skin was the color of rich, dark coffee and her hair, tightly curled and incredibly thick, resembled burnt caramel. She lay asleep on his chest, her face pressed into the crook of neck and shoulder, her arm draped over his broad chest, his arm around her waist, hand flat against the small of her back, only the lower half of their bodies covered by the linens. The contrast of his lightly tanned chest and her polished ebony skin was startling.

Eomer was a man who loved women for their own sake, not for the color of their skin.

Loti was under no illusion that he had been remaining celibate. She had seen him on several occasions returning from somewhere looking relaxed, rumpled and hedonically disembodied, a glint of guilty pleasure in his eye. But before now, he had never brought them back to his own bed.

She stood there for a minute, stewing, watching them sleep with the even rise and fall of Eomer's chest, confused about many things. There was a bottle on the ground, knocked over in the strewn pile of discarded clothing and she picked it up, sniffed. Ale. Not that it was any consolation. This was Rohirric ale and wickedly strong stuff it was, too.

"Little trip into town, my ass," Loti muttered to herself.

Bending down again, she snatched up the other woman's dress. This was no homespun frock, but finely made kirtle of linen and a cotton shift. She was no whore, then; more likely, some wealthy man's mistress or wife. The woman would have to go _now_, before she was missed, questions asked and her man's men come a-knocking to find their master's property coveted by the King of Rohan!

Heaving a sign, Loti nudged her awake, murmuring, "Time to go, honey." Eomer, who had also been nudged into a half wakeful stupor, rolled over with a moan when she left the confines of their love nest, groping for his missing bedmate.

The woman's face wasn't exactly pretty, far below what she thought the standards of a king might be, but her body was altogether a different story. She was unusually tall for a Haradrim woman, most of who were stunted by poor nutrition, and older. Perhaps a little older than Eomer himself? The wide breadth of her hips and curved swells of her buttocks wiggled when she walked. She had a slight paunch to her stomach and her breasts were large and firm. Affecting an air of detached indifference watching the woman dress, the thickness of her thighs and the abundance of her breasts made Loti's own body feel woefully inadequate.

She hustled his erstwhile lover into the day light while she was still pinning her scarf into her hair and Loti pressed several of Eomer's coins into her hand, bidding her farewell, and good riddance. Now, to deal with him…

Intending to make racket of all kinds to wake him, Loti stormed back inside the tent to find Eomer already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the ground.

"Couldn't you see we were asleep?" He snapped as she stomped right over his discarded clothes.

"Oh! I can see sleeping is exactly what happened here last night. A good time was had by all I hope!" The contempt in her voice dripped from her lips and she waved a hand at his things on the ground.

"Don't use that tone with me, girl."

His words were harsh and that make the blood pulse inside her skull. "Don't speak to me like you're my father. Gods, Eomer, you are a thoughtless, selfish, inconsiderate idiot! What were you thinking bringing that woman here?" She demanded hotly, beginning to snatch things off the ground.

"I was thinking about fucking her, wasn't I?"

"That's all you're ever worried about, isn't it?" She blurted accusingly. "Finding some—some—" her free hand waved in the air, "Some cunt to stick your cock into! Don't you ever think before acting? I told you not to bring women into camp. How did you know she wasn't one of the others? How did you know she wouldn't knife in the back you while you were—were—fucking fucking her?"

She had informed him of the other girls she had known from her years spent in that hellish stone walled prison. Those girls who were more capable and less afraid to finish the job she couldn't. Those girls whose single living ambition was to kill and whose loyalties, unlike hers, were unquestionable and resolute.

"Don't bring any of the women you pick up back to the camp," she had told a small gathering of his officers one afternoon some weeks before, "Any one of them could be a spy or a killer and you'd never know it. I could get into places men couldn't and no one ever suspected. They'll do whatever they can to get at Eomer so it's better not to risk it. That includes you," she said firmly, poking him in his bare ribs as he leaned shirtless and sweating against his desk.

"Me?" His eyebrows drew together unhappily, forming a single dark blonde line, as though he thought the rules shouldn't apply to him. He mumbled noises and grunts and nodded complacently. Loti thought he had capitulated and agreed, if seemingly unwilling, thinking this was the best way to keep him and his men safe.

Obviously, he didn't think the rules applied to him and he clearly was unwilling, the horny old boar.

"Sounds like you're jealous," he answered coldly.

Loti popped up straight, arm laden with his personal belongings. They must have been to a tavern. His clothes smelled smoky and hoppy, sweet like female and musky like a rutting Rohirric male. "Jealous!" The word came out in one long breathy stream. "Jealous! You think I'm jealous of her? She's the next thing to a whore! I made sure I paid her like one!"

"Paid her?" he exclaimed, "If she's the whore, what about you?"

"What about me?" She shot back, her ire on the rise and hot on the trail for more of his discarded stuff. Already she had collected his shirt, pants, a tunic, his boots, and chain mail shirt and stood only at the foot of the bed. He was crossing into dangerous territory, scratching at a wound he knew she would be upset by.

His toes curled, digging into the sandy ground, sparsely covered with grass. "I know you've been sleeping in that Glullyn's bed. Admit it. You think I don't know these things? Did _you_ even think before you started fucking him?"

"Who sounds jealous now?" She threw back arrogantly. It was true; she had been sleeping in Red's bed, alone, and at night, when he was out of the camp fulfilling his assigned duties. Surely, Eomer should know that, since it seemed he was all knowing! Perhaps he really was jealous that her attention and affection should be directed towards another man. "I don't have much of a choice do I? You've never given me a place to sleep, never told me where to go. At least he was kind enough to offer. That's more than you've done!"

"What I've done for you isn't enough?" He bit the question out bitterly, and pointed at the tent's entrance. "Fine, then. There's the door, you're free to go back to whatever hellhole you came from."

"I'm not going anywhere until I'm finished!" She slapped his shirt against her leg in frustration. "How could you do that, E? You put us all at risk! And for what? To get yourself off in some other man's woman? You've got a hand and a damn big one. Start using it!"

"Ungrateful, fucking whore," she heard him say under his breath, roughly scratching the back of his head in irritation.

Loti made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. She was glad it was still slightly dark in the tent so he couldn't see her turning a dangerous shade of crimson or the hurt he caused by saying such a terrible thing. She went off like a firecracker. "Arrogant, fucking hypocrite!"

That did it. "Get out of here," he snarled nastily before ripping the linen sheet off his bare hips, bolting up out of bed, walking away a few steps and lowering down at her sidelong. He was as naked and barbarous as any man she had ever seen. Not a man, not in this moment, but a warrior, powerful in presence, unyielding in spirit, magnificent in body, and completely unashamed, or unaware, of his stark nudity.

And Loti looked. How could she not? He was all on display before her eyes, exotic and primitive. There wasn't anything soft about those bulging horse master's thighs or taught buttocks, both showing the shallow depressions of lean muscle. Her eyes followed the line of hair down his stomach to the wiry, curled hairs at his crotch, finding him half aroused, in the way of a man in the morning. For a man who was as yellow haired as the sun, he certainly had a very dark patch of hair down there, she mused, almost forgetting what they were arguing about. Eomer was not a small man, not anywhere, and she no more than six feet away from any of him.

"Act like a man, Eomer!"

A muscle twitched in his jaw and he was in front of her in two steps, so fast she didn't have time to step back, grasping her by the arms with one firm shake. "I have been a man since I was eleven years old, bitch." He said it with such calm and spitefulness, biting down with unnecessary hate on the work 'bitch.'

"Call me a bitch?" She hissed, her sapphire eyes turning black as onyx, "Asshole!"

"Slut."

"Cocksucker!"

He reached for the clothes in her hands. "Give me these. My mother is dead. I don't need another."

Loti twisted lithely out of his grip, pulling back toward the tent flap. Teeth gnashed, with fire in the dark depths of her eyes, she turned, gave him a good hard, metal melting stare, cocked her arms and hurled all of his things out the door, watching as they landing in undignified heaps like garbage in the streets. Then she marched swiftly back and slapped him hard across the face. He kept his cheek, imprinted with the mark of her hand, turned away; indignantly refusing to acknowledge her as she gave him a well deserved berating. "Bringing your whores here puts your men at risk too, you selfish jackass. If you don't give a damn about yourself, at least think of them." She poked a ridged and condemning finger into his sternum. "I wouldn't have to act like your mother if you would behave like a man instead of a boy."

He seized her arms again, jerking her close to his naked body. "Do you want me to show you what kind of man I am?" Eomer demanded, speaking through gritted teeth as he always did when he was angry. She felt the tip of his half engorged penis brush against her belly. "Will you let me take my ease with you?"

She could smell him. The raw scent of his sweat and seed, and another smell, his own, earthy and natural, that blurred her rational thoughts with her own bodily needs. His hands where hot and damp, even through the fabric of her shirt and his skin flushed as she tried calmly to say, "Let me go, Eomer. You know I won't."

Her heart beat pounded with worry, glancing at his bed. He was naked, aroused and angry, and they were too near the bed. She knew all too well what angry, aroused men were capable of.

His eyes curiously followed hers, lowering to the bed, then flicked up to meet the nervous expression on her face. "Be mindful of my mercy, girl," he said, "I could use you as I want. If I were you, I'd remember what my role was here. Now go."

Loti stumbled over what few of his items were left scattered on the ground when he released her arms, shoving her backwards. When she didn't immediately flee in terror, he pointed at the doorway and roaring, "Leave! Now!" Frightened by the rage emanating from every naked inch of him, she walked to the entrance, yanked open the flap and stopped. Years of reinforced behavior made her shudder at his explosive ferocity, fear the wonder of his nakedness, and cringe at his threats, but what was there really to be afraid of? His words had been hurtful and cut deep, but that was all they had been—words. She was capable of fighting back with her own. Eomer would never hurt her; not now, not ever.

Whipping around, Loti stalked back to stand right in front of him, their icy blue glares cold enough to crack steel. Then she lifted her foot and stomped, bringing the heel of her boot down square across his toes. He let out an almighty howl, unleashing a cacophony of Rohirric indignities upon her as she whirled, flipping a braid over her shoulder with a toss of her head, and strode out into the humid morning with haughty deliberation, chin high, nose in the air. There was a soft, feathery _thwump_ on the ground behind her as his pillow followed her out the door.

XXX

It was another two weeks before Eomer called her to his side. He spoke only the barest of words to Loti in the fortnight since their argument, not making any conversation beyond orders and instructions. Unlike other times when they gone head to head, he seemed unwilling to forgive her for the bitter exchange of words said in the heat of confrontation on this most recent go around. In the normal course of events, she expected Eomer to have forgotten all about the blowup by the next day, giving her a casual, amnesic nod before she began her day's work. But this time he had chosen to hold a grudge. Not that she had gone out of her way to soothe his bloated, cocksure ego. As far as Loti was concerned, he was in the wrong and had behaved recklessly, with the maturity and impulsiveness of a child.

The Rohirrim camp was located on the on the eastern outskirts of the city along the river just inside South Gondor's southern border. Little Rohan as it was so affectionately known, was very large, covering several square miles of land, most of which was used for pasturing and grazing the hundreds of prized Rohirrim horses.

It took nearly a half an hour to walk the tent city's congested main path after Aric had summoned her to join Eomer near the camp's guarded main entrance. The main gate was a hubbub of activity with the comings and goings of horses, men and wagons. The road leading into town was lined with merchants and their makeshift stalls, all waiting for the chance to entice a Rider into spending his hard earned coins on food, or trinkets to take home as souvenirs, so the gate was habitually and unceasingly crowded and noisy. Two locals were attempting, and failing, to gain entrance into the camp, arguing with two spear and sword wielding soldiers, claiming they had business within. All in all, it was a relatively pleasant and exciting place, what with the homey smells of fresh bread, frying pastries and roasting meat from the food vendors beyond, despite all the boisterousness and confusion.

She stopped mid stride as to remain untrampled by twenty mounted men, armed to the teeth and looking generally fearsome, departing on another sortie. Through the churning legs and the obstruction of human and equine bodies, Loti was able to spot Eomer's towering blonde head, wisps of hair blown into his eyes by a salty sea breeze.

He wasn't alone. With him were Bram and Gram, holding a portly, balding man by the arms as he babbled animatedly near a large mule drawn wagon and several other nameless cavalrymen she had yet to meet.

Eomer didn't waste time with pleasantries. "We chased him down trying to cross the river into Harad. Ask him what he's doing trying to sneak a wagon full of weapons past us?" He gestured with a lift of his chin, encompassing both the wagon and the unknown man.

The portly, balding man was simply dressed in drab green pantaloons and a recently washed, similarly dull tan colored shirt. He sported several days outgrowth of scruffy beard on his face, unusual for a Haradrim man who, as a culture generally detested facial hair, and his head, on second look, was balding, but shaved with the same few days of prickly stubble. His brown eyes were big with worry, and he spoke rapidly and somewhat panicked, turning from Bram to Gram in a way that was clearly pleading, no matter what language he spoke.

Loti looked with severe criticism from Eomer to the captive man. EomerKing needed a lesson in tact and building rapport if he thought to get any information out of this man. "My name is Loti," she said, and the man blinked in surprise, imitating an owl. "I'm going to try to help you. No one here will hurt you, but they want you to answer some questions. Will you tell me your name?"

"My name?" The man asked puzzled, "M-my name is Asif. What are they going to do with me?"

"Nothing. For right now, just answer his questions," she soothed, seeing the lines around his eyes deepen, and then placed a hand on Eomer's arm, "This is Eomer. Answer his questions, tell the truth, and whatever you've done, he will show you mercy."

Perking up at the sound of his name, Eomer asked, "What are you telling him?"

She frowned, looking up to him with annoyance. "That you're going to eat his children. I'm getting around to your questions!"

"Get on with it then."

"Don't interrupt again and I will!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!" Loti shook her head flippantly, turning her attentions back to Asif and softening. "Eomer would like to know why you have these weapons in your wagon."

"You are a Southron?" Asif pried.

"I—" Loti hesitated, "I used to be, yes. I was from Umbar—The City of Corsairs."

The man stared up at Eomer with astonishment and she heard him stiffen behind her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder in an act of protection, not possession. If Eomer was ignorant of the language, he understood the power of the body, especially his own.

Bewildered, Asif said, "You are his prisoner? He has captured you? He has—You are enslaved?"

_Only to his arrogance, moodiness, hangovers, unrealistic demands, his pride and his honor,_ she thought to herself with an internal chuckle.

She shook her head, nearly with a laugh, wishing to calm the man's fears. "Oh goodness, no," and placed her hand on top of Eomer's, linking them in solidarity, his fingers thick and solid, "He has shown me nothing but kindness and rescued me from men who knew none themselves. I've chosen to stay with him. The Rohirrim despise slavery."

"But these men," he protested, using the word loosely, and casting a wary glance at the twins, "surely they cannot be human! They must be half beasts with their great ugliness and hairy faces. I've never seen anything like them!"

Loti stole quick glances from Bram to Gram to Eomer, all blonde and broad and muscular, and all quite handsome in a rugged back woods, agricultural sort of way. "Eomer, do you think you could let him go, show him some sort of kindness? I think he's too frightened about what you're going to do to him to talk."

With a Rohirric noise of understanding, he nodded at the twins who dropped the man's arms, but stayed nearby, leaning back against the man's wagon. Eomer retrieved his canteen from Firefoot's saddle, presenting it to the man in good faith. Asif looked hesitant and not a little dubious, and he gestured again, insistent. "Drink," Eomer said, "The day is hot." Neither man understood the other but generosity and hospitality are universally understood. Asif drank deeply, glugging.

Turning to face her, Eomer demanded, "I want to know where those weapons came from," and he took up his place behind her again, stubbornly thrusting out his jaw.

Squaring her shoulders, Loti began once more. "Eomer asks that you tell him how you came by these weapons?" The wagon held several bundles of the shorter, one handed bastard swords, a few other evil looking weapons and two large sealed casks.

Asif went pale and tight lipped.

Sensing the man's hesitation, Eomer piped up with, "Tell As—As—"

"Asif," Loti pronounced.

Now he looked tight lipped as well, "Tell our guest here," he said instead, "that the only way I can offer him my mercy is if he chooses to help himself. If he chooses otherwise I cannot make him any guarantees."

Loti felt a moment's compassion for the man, who fidgeted with deliberation, caught between the rock and the hard place. "I am a peaceful man. I have no quarrel with him," he flung his head in Eomer's direction, "or his men. But if I tell you and he finds out, he will kill me and my family."

"Who is he?" She demanded shortly, wrinkling an eyebrow.

He was becoming more distraught, his voice tight and strangled. "We are poor. Our land is taken, our crops have been failing, and we have been near to starving since the end of the war. My clan is all but slaves to him. He pays and pays well, but I cannot say no to him either. I cannot tell you anything! He will kill my wife and babies if he finds out!" Suddenly Asif stepped forward and gripped her by the arms. He was a man in his fifties, and physically still strong, but his eyes were sunken, red and despondent. "You must not let him hurt them! Please! They must not find out I've been here!"

Eomer reacted the instant she was touched, shoving the man back against the wagon so hard that it shuddered, startling the mules who he-hawed in distress. Placing himself between Loti and what he thought was her assailant, he again spoke words that needed no interpretation, fisting the man's dingy shirt in his hands. "Don't you touch her again!"

"Eomer, stop it!" She yelled, wiggling to slip between him and Asif. The other man had withstood the assault well, but by his white to the lips expression, still harbored some fear and doubt over Eomer's offer of mercy. The twins stood off to the side, arms folded, looking like fancy decorations that belonged in some rich nobleman's garden. They knew better than to interfere with this hot tempered northern king.

"Eomer," she started again after maneuvering him into a neutral corner, "He's afraid someone will kill his family he tells you anything."

Very quickly his ruffled feathers smoothed. "Kill them? Who?"

"Well I was about to ask that, wasn't I, before you came charging in on your white horse! Now you've got him so scared he'll probably pickle himself!" He continued looking stubborn, so she tried looking more stubborn. "Just do me a favor. Stand here and shut up."

The twins snickered behind beards and backs of hands. Eomer didn't.

Her attention returned to Asif to converse with him once more.

Eomer felt quite useless, standing there as she spoke to the man. He was quite envious of her ability to speak so many languages, curse his thick headed ways. It was an expressive tongue, Haradrim, he decided, watching her wave her hands about, speaking as much with gestures as with her voice; a thing she never did when speaking in his own language. The man, though, was upset. He knew that not from the wild gesturings the man made, but from the contortions on his face and inflections in his voice.

Finally, Loti turned to Eomer and sighed dejectedly. "I don't think we're going to learn anything useful. He's too scared to talk and he's obviously just the middle man. He won't risk getting his family killed."

He inhaled a long, deep breath, squeezed shut his eyes from the blazing summer sun and linked his hands over the top of his head. She could see he was hot, and frustrated. His face was dirty with the dust from riding and beads of sweat made tracks across his skin. He walked in circles, then, pacing to release his tension, deep lines creasing his forehead as he thought.

"What's he told you so far?" Listening as she talked, he unlooped another canteen from his saddle, bent his head and poured its watery contents over the back of his neck, letting it run cool and wet inside his shirt and backplate. Then he stood, took a drink, and soused his head and hair with the rest of it, splattering droplets everywhere like a big honey haired dog. He wore his hair different today, not the half up braided tail she was accustomed to, but parted down the middle and pulled back at the sides into a loose queue.

Loti shrugged. "Only that they're poor, his clan is peaceful, but they've been defeated by another more powerful tribe in the area. He says most of their land was taken by the new chieftain, and there isn't enough good land left to farm. He says they don't have enough to eat, so running the weapons gives him enough money to buy food."

After wiping the water from his eyes with his fingertips, Eomer spoke, his voice carrying a hint of distress and surprise. "So they're starving then?"

Damn, he should have recognized it sooner. It had become far too common, and he had seen it many times before in his own people as their land and crops and livestock were ravaged by the enemy. The man wasn't portly because he was fat, quite the opposite, in fact. It was the bloat symptomatic of malnutrition.

Loti yipped an exclamation as she was dragged unceremoniously back to stand before their unwilling guest.

"Ask him what it's going to take?"

"Take to what?" She asked exasperated. He was at it again, speaking in vague, half finished thoughts.

"To turn him," he made and a hand gesture of impatience, "Will he do it for food? Will he work with us if I offer him food? Will he tell us about the weapons?"

Loti furrowed an eyebrow skeptically. This seemed like an awful lot of worry over a few bundles of swords.

"Ghaw, girl, don't ask questions," Eomer growled, "Just do as I say. Tell him I know doing this will put him in danger, but I need to stop these weapons from being smuggled. If he can't help his tribe at least he can help his family survive."

"You want him to be a spy for us while he's working for them?" The dubiousness was evident in her voice. The idea was preposterous! "A double agent! Seriously, Eomer! And what happens when he double crosses you back?"

He stared at the man, genuinely concerned for his welfare, but spoke with sincerity to Loti. "I can choose to be a king or a man. But I cannot be both. My generosity comes from my need as a man to do good, not on behalf of the kingdom I represent. If he chooses to help us, he will be loyal to me as a man, an individual, not my title or my office." Eomer shook his head, knowing and meditative. "No, he won't double cross me."

Loti understood then. This was something he needed to do. "If you think this is best."

He nodded tersely but said softly, "I do."

She spoke then without reluctance to Asif, who, despite his sad appearance, was courageous and stalwart, readily agreeing to a chance to take back his own pride, independence and manhood. As agreed upon, Eomer offered the man five bags of rice and flour, a twenty pound wheel of their tangy orange cheese and a bag of dried peas. The mules, a pair of ancient beasts, were badly in need of shoeing, so he also sent for the farrier. This simple act sent Asif in to fits of exclamations, in turns both praising and thanking Eomer for his bountiful goodwill and limitless largess. Eomer, being a man who generally hated kowtowing, groveling, bootlicking and being fallen all over, politely told the man to shut up.

"I want the name of the man who threatens him," he told Loti.

After another brief exchange, the corner of her mouth twisted and she lifted her eyes to meet Eomer's. His mouth imitated hers.

"It's someone we know, isn't it."

"It's someone I think we're going to get to know a lot better," she said ruefully, "His boss is Izz al Din."

"Hmmphf," he snorted savagely. "You make sure that he tells Izz al Din that EomerKing took his shipment."

Another wagon was brought, Asif's arsenal of casks, swords and other miscellaneous arms loaded into the back of it, Loti, unexpectedly and inelegantly, loaded into the front of it and they set off down the main path towards the river. Neither she nor Eomer spoke for a few minutes, as he drove the wagon along the busy thoroughfare, twitching the reins over two pairs of enormous brown rumps.

She broke the silence as he made the turn to the river. "That was very good of you," she said diplomatically, placing a hand on his arm. He was relaxed, leaning over, driving the wagon with his elbows on his knees. His head cocked to the side, trying to hide a smile.

"What? With old Asif back there? I did the easy part," he replied, wanting to put the idea from her mind, "He's got to do the hard part."

"There's no in between with you, is there? You're either terribly modest or terribly arrogant," she laughed, and he did too, the corners of his eyes creasing in a spray of lines. "No, I mean it. You could have threatened the man instead. You were very good to him. He's very grateful. "

The wagon began to bounce and lurch down the narrow track, and Eomer sat upright with attentiveness, yelling unrepeatable gutturals to the horses. Loti was jostled and slid down the bench as the wheels hit a rut, bumping against his side. He threw an arm around her shoulder, holding her close until the jolting stopped.

"Ah, well," he replied, taking his hand from her shoulder and placing it on her knee with a squeeze. She made no effort to move away. "It worked out for me once before, eh?"

His mouth widened again into that big crooked smile, and Loti turned away with a giggle, taking his meaning. She made to move back down the bench when Eomer asked, "What, are you too afraid to sit by me?" There was a flirtatious tone in his voice and spark in his eye.

"No!" She protested a bit too quickly.

In a voice as rich and smooth as melted brown sugar, he said, "Come back over then."

For the first time she realized why women came so easily into his bed. He was suave and aloof, boyish and masculine. With that bright white smile, bottomless blue eyes, and rugged angles of cheekbones and jaw, he was very nearly irresistible. She couldn't blame his women. What foolish woman would say no to him?

She obliged him, scooting back to sit close but not quite touching and failing miserably to convince herself it was what he wanted, and not what she wanted.

"What are you going to do with all this…stuff?" Loti waved a generalizing hand at the contents of the wagon bed.

Eomer took a quick backwards glance at it all. "The weapons I'm not so worried about," he began, "Every man has a right to defend himself, or his family, or his property. Especially from someone who has the power to take it, like a chieftain or a king. But I'm sure that's not what these are for. I'm a little bothered by how many are here. This is Gondorian steel. Trust me, I know these things," he said in response to her inquisitively raised eyebrow and she wasn't inclined to doubt him, "It's much higher quality than most steel. They haven't seen battle either, there's no nicks or chips in the blades, so that tells me they've just been made. But still," now he wrinkled his face in annoyance, "there's only twenty five or thirty blades here. Not enough to outfit an army, so why bother to smuggle them past us?"

"So…if it's not the swords they're trying to smuggle—" She was following his train of thought, "But what—" She swiveled on the bench to look in the wagon bed, starting to catch on. "It's not the swords is it, Eomer? It's the casks!"

"Can't you smell it?" he asked curiously.

Leaning over the bench seat, she inhaled loudly. The barrels did have a faintly acrid smell, nothing too overpowering, though, just mildly disagreeable.

She plopped back down next to him, accidentally to close this time, touching all the way from hip to knee. Too proud to move away—he wanted her to sit close, didn't he—Loti took a sudden, overly enthusiastic interest in the sky, effecting extreme casualness in rolling her eyes heavenward, like he wasn't even there.

The sky overhead, she happened to note, was a bright and brilliantly blue as ever; clear without a cloud in sight and the humid early summer haze lying low and opaque along the horizon.

"Doesn't the weather ever change?" Eomer had asked. Obviously, he didn't consider sunny and hot 'weather'. The answer was quite simply, no. Not yet anyway, and when it did, she doubted he would feel any more excited about the prospect of mud and the damp that seemed to seep in everywhere.

The day was hot. She felt the tickle of a line of sweat between her breasts and her linen shirt was starting to stick to her body. Poor Eomer must be roasting alive. His hair had grown since their first meeting, and now fell well past his shoulders in waves of yellow, gold, and brass. Sweat and water soaked the hair at the back of his neck and she had to push aside the strong urge to lift away those wet strands from his sun baked skin.

"Why don't you pull it all back into a tail and braid it. It would be much cooler," she had suggested some weeks ago. He grimaced, an expression that wordlessly said, 'foolish woman, never'.

Gods, that man was stubborn!

Finally, with seemingly no effort, he guided the horses and wagon to the river bank. "Come on," he said, ignoring her outstretched hand and choosing instead to grab her around the waist in helping her to the ground, "I'll introduce you to Hifur."

Hifur was, as Eomer explained, the product of a brief, passionate, and truly scandalous affair between a female elf and a male dwarf. Rejected by both elves and dwarves alike, his mother, desperate to find a home for her son, came to Rohan where a kindly childless couple adopted the atypical baby. Therefore Hifur was short, no taller than Loti herself, wiry, had pointy ears like aspen leaves, was very dark haired, and the ivory, fine boned features of his face were covered in a long, thick, black, glossy beard and mustache that damn near every man in Rohan envied. Hifur also liked fire, and, as a child, much to his parent's dismay had burned down more than one cottage.

The dwarvan elf—or elven dwarf?—spotted them coming, running up and waving a hand in greeting. Hifur was also missing a few fingers.

"Got something you'll want to see," Eomer said rather more loudly than necessary.

"What?" The incongruous half whatever-he-was said, leaning in and making a confused face.

Eomer threw a thumb over his shoulder at the wagon. "There is something you will want to see," he repeated, even more loudly, and enunciating every word.

"I don't see why I should have to leave. I just got here," Hifur responded in an elven voice like liquid silk.

Eomer looked impatient. "No, you're not leaving! Gods, man, where's your," he pretended to jam something at his head, "ear trumpet?"

"Oh, bother," the dwarf elf said equally as loud, and surveyed the immediate vicinity, scowling. "I suppose I've misplaced it again." Then, he stuck a finger in one transparent, pointy ear, twisted, pulled it out and looked meditatively at his findings.

Hifur was also hard of hearing.

The untimely losing of the ear trumpet, it appeared, was a common occurrence, because Eomer regained his normal blasé equanimity, bent over and basically shouted in the elven dwarf's ear. "Give me a hand with these barrels in the wagon."

So Hifur, looking completely out of place dressed as one of the noble Rohirric Horse Lords, trailed behind, his stubby bowl legs lumbering.

The barrels were large and incredibly heavy, taking all the strength both men had to lower them unbroken to the ground. That Hifur was a strong little bugger, she observed, watching him awkwardly struggling against Eomer's towering height and reach to heave down his half of the load. After rolling both some distance from the horses, over the long stalks of the grasses that happen to flank the rivers banks, they tipped one of the barrels upright and Eomer pried off the lid with the blade of his new knife.

Hifur leaned over the contents of the barrel dreamily, eyes glittering. "Ho ho! Look what you've brought me! Black gold!"

Loti squeezed her small frame between the two, peering also into the depths of the barrel, seeing nothing but granules of black, like sand on the beach. Eomer scooped a hand through it letting the fine dark grains sift through his fingers, while Hifur continued looking excited.

"Well, I'll be buggered by a goat! Look at it all! And the other one? It's full too?"

There was something all together unnatural about the way the half elf—dwarf?—was eyeing the black stuff in the cask.

Nibbling on a fingernail, she asked, "Eomer, ah, what is it?"

Eomer wiggled a finger, imitating invisible wisps of scent that wafted faintly from the open barrel. "Smell that? It's kind of a nasty smell. It's sulfur." And very grimly he finished, "This is black powder."

"Yes, I can see that," she snapped testily. If he wasn't being incredibly vague, he was stating the obvious! "What does it do?"

Hifur butted in then in his loud voice seeing Eomer in bemused frustration and Loti's unguarded face wondering, "What the hell?" "Perhaps herself would like a little demonstration? That is if Himself wouldn't mind." The glint in the elven dwarf's eye was bordering on frightening. She could almost make out his blunted little hands rubbing together in a fiendish fervor.

Eomer went to the wagon, rooted around under the seat and returned carrying a large gourd cup and a tinderbox. He scooped out cupful after cupful until he had a decent sized hill of the blackish sand-like material some fifty yards away. Tinderbox in one hand and a fistful full of dried rushes in the other, Hifur crossed the meadow, strands of his black beard blowing behind him, and kneeling, easily lit the rushes. Loti watched as Eomer slowly raised his hands and pressed the palms flat to his ears. Not knowing what in Eru's name was going on, or what the bloody hell was going to happen, she did the same. The elf man—dwarf person?—oh, whatever, the idea was just too absurd—waved the waved the torch, and threw…

The whole black mound went up with an almighty bang! Loti jumped; the concussion of the explosion echoing in her chest, then crashed into Eomer with a shriek as loud as the blast itself and momentarily wondered if her heart would start beating again. Behind them the horses, whinnied and screeched, their tack ringing in agitation. There was column of fire, a whoosh of heat and a thick billowing cloud of eye tearing, brimstone stinking smoke.

"That," Eomer explained, completely unnecessarily, "is what black powder does."

They could hear Hifur whooping as he ran through the smoke to greet them, yellow teeth bared behind a satisfied smile. Now the half whosy-whats-it in front of her made total sense! His penchant for playing with fire, the squirrelly gleam in his eye, his missing fingers, his lack of hearing… Hifur also like to make things go ka-boom.

"So, missy, how was that there for you?" Hifur grinned gleefully.

She gave him a half hearted smile, a hand on her chest to make sure the other half of her heart was still working and was fairly certain it did since her head pounded like a war drum. Then a thought flickered as her mind started working again, and realization dawned.

"Good gods, E!" She blurted, whipping head and braids to see him standing calm but steely eyed beside her. He already knew what she was thinking.

"I've seen that stuff blow up a wall fifteen feet thick."

"What—what the hell are they going to do with it?" It was a breathless question. She had already assumed that the possibilities were quite limited, and quite deadly.

He snorted derisively, "It makes awfully expensive fertilizer."

"If you caught Asif with this trying to get into Harad, then that means it came from the north—from Gondor! But from who? And why? And we don't even know for certain that this was for Izz al Din!" Her mind was beginning to reel with unanswered questions. "How do we know the people who wanted this don't already have some, or they aren't looking to get more?"

"That's what we're going to have to find out, eh?"

She only now realized how dangerous this mission was and how much trouble she, Eomer, and his Rohirrim might find themselves embroiled in.

"Well, what are we going to do with it now?"

Smiling, Eomer clapped the little fellow on the back, who was looking quite perplexed since he couldn't hear anything anyone was saying. "Hifur here will take care of it. He'll add some water to it and then we'll sell it as fertilizer. That is after he's done blowing stuff up with it."

"So you weren't kidding about that? Making it into fertilizer, I mean."

"No. All it's made of is saltpeter, sulfur and charcoal. Mixing water with it will make it harmless," he then leaned down and shouted in his comrade's leaf shaped ear, "We'll leave you to it."

Hifur touched two fingers to his high, domed, elven forehead, as if her were removing an imaginary hat. "It was a pleasure to finally meet you, mum. You take good care of Himself, now, won't you?"

"He's a good soldier," Eomer reassured her as they walked back to the wagon, "Can't hear worth a damn but has eyes like a hawk."

"Don't tell me he's married? I don't think I could even imagine what those babies would look like!" She giggled with a perverse curiosity to know what dwarf-elf-humans would look like. Would the girls have beards?

"No," he said, tight lipped, "But the women love that beard."

She wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded. "I didn't think you were the jealous sort!"

"I'm not," contested Eomer, too quickly and too defensively.

They had stopped next to the wagon, and Loti squared around to face him, tugging on the short hairs of his beard. "Well, I like yours."

He did have a nice beard. All Rohirrim men had beards in one form or another, some long, some scraggily, some bushy, like a big boll of cotton had sprouted on their face. But Eomer kept his clipped short. It wasn't rough, either, as she would have expected, but a course silkiness, and smooth to the touch. And if she looked very, very closely, Loti could see just a few white-ish hairs amongst the variegations of blondes and golds; untimely evidence the stresses and burdens of his office and position, and those of his personal life were taking its toll. It was those flecks of silver, few and far between though they were, that suffused this young man with dignity and virility, and the ability to make any woman's heart flutter, including Loti's.

Eomer pinched her chin, tipping her head to the side, and leaving black powder smudges. "I like yours, too, but it doesn't seem to be coming in properly," he teased.

"I certainly hope not!" She cried, playfully pushing his hand from her chin. "When was the last time you were clean shaven?"

"Oh," he took a second to think, rubbing a hand over his own cheek, "Seventeen or eighteen, I suppose. You got to shave it a few times to make it come in thicker. Well," he sighed, changing the subject, "I'll have to let the women know he's off the market. I think he's found one of his own in you. Aren't you part elf?" And he poked the brown mark above her lip, leaving another black smudge.

Now it was her turn to go on the defensive. "I don't know why everybody thinks that," she rebuffed the idea sharply, a single line deepening between finely arched brows. "My mother wasn't and my father didn't have pointy ears or anything as far as I know. All it means it that I'm blessed—" Her voice faltered and broke off from the irony, sad as it was. She tried again; eyes fixed on her fingers as she twisted them together, "I'm blessed by the Valar with the beauty and grace of the elves. Not that I am an elf."

_Blessed_, she scoffed, _Cursed is more like it._ It was the reason she had been chosen…and destroyed. She would have given anything to be inconspicuous, normal, average, to not be ogled by every man she passed, to blend in and disappear. She should hate the Valar for what they had given her, and for what it meant they had taken away.

"It is true, I am beautiful on the outside, but there is no denying it, I am ugly and wicked on the inside," she whispered meekly, still unable to look at him.

Eomer wouldn't abide her lies. She hadn't said it out of self pity, she actually believed it, and he put a finger under her chin, raising her face to his. Her feathery black lashes lifted, revealing an intensely blue, crystalline gaze, both sad and strong, submissive and powerful. Gods and Devils, she made him unbelievably confused and unimaginably aroused in so many different ways.

He picked up a braid that lie over her shoulder and let the length of chestnut and cinnamon fall through his hand, silky and comforting as a lover's touch in the night.

"Oh," he said, hearing the edge of irony in his own voice, "you're so wrong."

He did feel it then; a raw ache in his chest for her and what she wouldn't say. Pity for another was such a strange, sad feeling and he could easily find himself drawn down into its pathetic depths.

"Come on," he said briskly, throwing an arm around her neck and pulling her against his side in an ear squishing headlock. She squealed and squirmed, forgetting all about her melancholy; precisely what he had hoped for. "Eothain's got some work to do."

XXX

Eomer jabbed at the letter with his spoon. "I like how Elfhelm writes notes in the margins," he said, pointing at one note in particular that read 'pompous little prick' with an arrow drawn to the applicable sentence.

It was growing late. The dusky evening sky glowed with the vibrancy of prismatic jewels, pink tourmalines, the dark purples of amethyst and lavenders of jasper, yellow topaz, and the light orange-red of a rubies, as the heat of the day disappeared with the setting sun. He sat across the table from her in his rolled up shirt sleeves, a quirky, entertained smile on his face as they ate.

Eomer had been restless, unable to concentrate to his fullest ability on any task, even after coming back from a hard ride with Firefoot. Consequently, Loti's own work, the writing of requisitions for supplies, official correspondence to despotic, over bearing Gondorian councilors and bureaucrats, in triplicate of course, and the mundane chores of everyday life, had suffered. The log book needed updating, he was behind on his personal correspondence, one boot of a pair was polished, the other lay tipped on its side, scuffed and dusty, oblivious to its filthy, slovenly state, more ink needed to be made, quills sharpened, laundry washed… Finally, after several fits and starts of conversation, and after watching him fidget for half an hour behind his desk, he said, "Ah, to hell with it!", plucked the quill from her hand, and suggested, "Go change into that dress. Let's go find something to eat."

Loti smoothed the fabric over her knees as she sat on the bench at the table and read part of the ghastly uninteresting and mildly condescending letter. The dress had been an issue of disagreement for some days after its purchase. While looking at her in it inside the dressmaker's shop he had grumbled, "I thought I said nothing fancy." The elven dressmaker, like any temperamental artist took offense, clicking his tongue derisively and waving an admonishing finger in one direction while tossing his head in the other. "What do you expect her to wear?" the high nasal voice lisped slightly, "A burlap sack? Good Valar," he broke off snapping long manicured fingers in front of Eomer's eyes as if he were a blind man, "can't you see she's living perfection? Oh! Men!" He started looking a bit like a small yapping dog. "You're not just an uncouth heathen, you're ignorant too!" And with that he stomped off in an overly emotional swirl of blue silk and a jangling of jewelry, whipping aside the curtain to his back room.

"What's up his ass? Don't answer that!" Eomer scowled after the elf's dramatics, answering his own question just as quickly when she opened her mouth to speak.

"Man problems," she declared, smugly.

The dress wasn't all that fancy. The kirtle was made of fine mahogany linen, sleeveless, with a square neckline, gored skirt and laces up the back. The under gown, too, was simple, made of cream colored Haradrim cotton; it had a dainty ruffle along the neckline and elegant bell sleeves that began halfway down her upper arm, spilled ridiculously past her wrists in billows and ruffles.

Eomer made cupping motions with his hands at chest level. "I can see your tits!" He said in a rough, scandalized whisper.

Loti looked down at the barest hint of cleavage the dress revealed. Compared to the fashions of the day in Gondor, which had ladies breasts hoicked up and bubbling out of the tops of all their garments, her dress was quite conservative and bordered on matronly. She pressed her hands flat to her bosom. "I haven't got any to see, Eomer!"

He stepped forward, peering into the depths of the dress. "You're the only woman living in a camp with over two thousand men! Even the married ones will look!"

Maybe he _did_ want her wearing a burlap sack. "They already look!" She argued, but, deciding to use a different tactic, sidled up to Eomer, who was looking unhappy and skeptical; two of his more common expressions. Taking his hand in hers, she pressed against him, wedging his arm between the insignificantly sized breasts being discussed. "E," she said, in the voice she used to get what she wanted and glanced demurely at her décolletage, "I never knew a man who didn't like to look. You could look, too, you know. I wouldn't mind."

Eomer regarded her cynically under lowered blonde brows as she batted dark lashes at him like tiny feathery fans. Then the noise she had been expecting came grumbling to the surface, followed by a derogatory snort. "There isn't that much to look at."

"Good!" She chirped, spinning on her heel, "It's settled then. I'm keeping it!"

At the present, Eomer was doing as she had suggested, looking, absently spooning up a carrot from his bowl of mutton stew. He always did it subtly, nothing ever so blatant as open staring or goggling, and averted his eyes after only a few seconds. For a man who thought there was nothing to see, he certainly saw something he enjoyed to keep looking so frequently. And Loti, who found her body well beneath Rohirric standards of voluptuousness, considered it flattering. At least when Eomer did it…

"And you don't mind that Elfhelm opens your letters?" She asked, noticing his eyes pop guiltily northward from chest to face.

"Nah," he dismissed casually, "He used to do it to my uncle too. He knows I'll end up telling him about it anyway. I guess he figures it saves me a step."

Loti hadn't seen this letter before now. Apparently, he had met the messenger on his ride.

Elfhelm, it turned out, was the scoundrel she thought him to be. According to Eomer, besides being a second in command and fiercely loyal to his old protégé, the Marshal, for as long as he could remember, would intercept official dispatches, read them, make his own notations and quippy, disparaging insults all over the page, draw unflattering pictures when necessary, reseal the letter and replace it to continue merrily along to its destination.

"My uncle was serious," he went on, conversationally, "uptight, very formal, proud… Elfhelm and Uncle Theoden went way back. They were friends for years. At first, my uncle didn't like him doing it, but one thing about Elfhelm, once he finds what irks you, he'll keep doing it no matter what you say about it. He doesn't mean anything by it. It's just him having a good time."

Loti licked sauce off the bowl of her spoon. The mutton was a little on the tough side, but otherwise delicious. "Serious and uptight, huh?" She teased. "Must run in the family?"

The corner of his mouth turned up into a cockeyed grin. "Maybe," he said, still chewing. "Anyway, we both think this little prick is obnoxious." Eomer pointed with his spoon at the indecipherable signature of some Gondorian councilor or another. "Elfhelm went round and round with this dimwit and a couple of those other useless councilors back when we rode off to the Black Gate." He paused, sucking on the tip of the spoon, the smile creeping back into his eyes and lips. "Remind me to tell you about that sometime." The spoon waved dismissively, "But, so, I left him in charge of the Rohirrim when I took off. I think they thought he would be easier to push around with me not there, the bastards."

Elfhelm had requested to rally as many Gondorian soldiers as possible to ride with the Rohirrim that remained in Minas Tirith in order to drive out all lingering enemy resistance in Anorien, a populous region to the north of the White City, while Eomer and Aragorn had taken the Host of the West to the Black Gate. A handful of the councilors had refused, and vehemently, stating that the men were needed for the city's continued fortification and defense. So Elfhelm, a man of decisive action, told them to get stuffed and had ridden out with his own men, routing orcs and Easterlings, retaking the Sun Land.

"But why would they refuse to help him?" Loti wondered.

"Ah, who knows," Eomer replied irritated. "It's alright for our men to fight and die for Gondor, but not for their own, I guess. That's just weak and spineless, if you ask me. And I guess nobody cared to at the time." He picked up a hunk of crusty bread, dunked it in the stew, soaked up the juices with it and bit down, dropping crumbs everywhere. The corner of his mouth twitched and he added fairly, "Not like there was a lot of leadership there at the time."

Eomer wore only his boots, brown wool britches, and white cotton shirt, untied at the neck and open, exposing part of his lightly sweaty chest and coarse blonde hairs. Seeming to have lost complete respect for proper table manners, his forearm and elbow rested rudely on the table, he had no reservations at all about speaking with his mouth full and burped once, although he had the grace to cover his mouth when he did so. He was all together, very common.

Loti picked the letter or letters rather, off the scarred wooden tabletop. It was nearly five full pages long, written in a fine precise hand with a well sharpened quill. Running her gaze down the page, she paused to read:

_Is it not advisable, sir, that you find some other way of peaceable negotiations with these people, heathens and animals though they may be, we would not want to put ourselves in a standing so poor that it would inhibit our ability to mediate an appropriate and desirable outcome to this unfortunate necessity of post war realities in the form of unilateral treaties with the Haradrim and her many kingdoms. _

Shuffling the papers to another page, she continued reading:

_We would be assured that you and your Riders would likewise show restraint in the handling of any confiscated contraband or prisoners you may find yourself in possession of in your travails as these may be of important future use to ensure the cooperations of such tribal leaders as may be entreated to find themselves disposed or inclined to make this process of peace possible for all parties involved. Any uninhibited actions by yourself or your designated men of arms would be taken as a sign of ill faith and disrespect to petitioners on both sides of this conflict, most certainly endeavoring to offend any and all chieftains most egregiously. We would also likewise advise you use cautionary or pre cautionary measures when judiciously handling…_

"Eomer, what does any of this mean!" Her head was starting to hurt from just reading the archaic sentence structure, and she hadn't even tried to determine what any of it meant. She hadn't understood a bloody thing since reading 'Greetings and Felicitations to His Royal Majesty, Eomer, Son of Eomund, Eighteenth Ruler of the Kingdom of Rohan' which was apparently his official title and name. No wonder he signed his name only as 'E'.

"Hell if I know," he laughed, and took a swig of ale. "Never trust a politician is what I think it says." Resting his arm back on the table, he went on, clearly annoyed with the writer of the letter. "How am I supposed to negotiate with people who want our complete and total destruction? I'm not going to sit at the treaty table with a man who wants to blow us up the minute we turn our backs. Why did they even ask me do come down here if they were going try to tie my hands? Not that I had much choice in the matter!"

He was ranting full bore suddenly, the timbre of his usual deep, raspy baritone raising an octave in disgust and the thickness of his accent becoming more pronounced with excitement. "Basically that's what their trying to tell me in this letter, that I should use restraint when the Haradrim attack my men. Supposedly, it makes Gondor and Rohan appear unfavorable in the eyes of the chieftains when I bring the hammer down in retaliation. Like I care what those chieftain bastards think! It becomes difficult to make peace if we go after them in retaliation, that's what they say! Well, _I say_ that's easy to say when you sit your ass behind a desk three hundred miles away! It's not his men who might get blown up in the streets. It's not his women who're left without husbands or his children left without fathers to beggary and the charity of others!"

Eomer had become quite agitated, tossing his spoon on the tabletop with a clang and sitting away from the table, running a hand roughly over his mouth.

"Isn't Aragorn a friend of yours? Can't you talk to him about this? Can't he do something for you?" Loti asked, hoping to find a way to help.

"Yes, he is and I have. But he can do very little right now without the approval of the council. Those councilors are powerful men and they hold a lot of sway. They've tasted power and they're not about to relinquish what they think they're entitled too, even if the King has returned. They are men and men are weak, so I suppose I can't really blame them for it. Death would've been the only way I'd have given up my position as Marshal. But Aragorn can't very well tell them all to shove it up their ass holes! Finally, after hundreds of years of being ruled by the Stewarts, Gondor's in transition. He needs allies among the nobility and the council. You make enemies with the bureaucrats and the nobles and then it's nearly impossible to get anything done. Politics, that's all this is! They've all got their own agenda instead of worrying about what's best for Gondor."

With another long sigh through his nose, Eomer rested his elbows on the wooden table and fisted his hands in front of his mouth, one covering the other.

After a long moment of gathering thoughts and self control, Eomer spoke, almost confidentially.

"If it were up to me, I'd say to hell with what the enemy thinks! They might sign treaties with you, they might act peaceful, seem like they want peace, but that doesn't mean they're your friend or your ally. All resistance must be crushed hard and fast. If that doesn't happen right away, then the killing and the fighting goes on for years and years and nothing gets resolved. Pretty soon, you're right back in the same boat you were before! On the defensive, fighting for your life. Even your own people will turn against you. Any good military leader will tell you the enemy should always worry about what could happen if they rise up against you again." Eomer pushed his hands through his hair, unknotting some of the tangles in the process, an effort to ease the passion and tension in his voice. "That's not to say you can't show them kindness or mercy," he added quickly as an afterthought. "But you need to be strong enough to show them where they stand with you and you with them. Not fear, either, I don't mean. Fear is useful, but it's better they have…reverence—respect!"

Loti waited patiently, sensing in the tension of his posture he would continue venting his frustration.

"Sometimes, I think they're afraid of my power," and he raised his shoulders in a self deprecating shrug. "Not that I'm so great, but I'm not pulled at by councils and politicians and bureaucracy, either. I could pack up my men tomorrow, ride for home, seal ourselves off from Gondor and the rest of the world and not give a second thought about it. And those bureaucratic bastards know it," Eomer finished, emphatically.

He stopped talking, looking and sounding like he wanted to do just that. His eyes weren't fixed on her, she noticed, but off to one side, just beyond her, glazed and distant in the many colored light of the setting sun. There was likely nothing he wanted more than to be home in the rolling prairies of the Riddermark surrounded and comforted by the things he loved most of all. Instead, he was stuck here in this stinking, sweating, sandy cesspool, hundreds of miles from his home and people, taking orders from clueless politicians and whom he considered a few rungs below cockroaches.

"So why don't you?"

He blinked, shaking himself back to reality, and asked, "Hmm?" before picking up his spoon, and resuming his arm-on-the-table stance.

"Why don't you? Pack up and go home, I mean."

The spoon dug lazily though the bowl of stew, and he took a deep breath, blowing it out between his lips in a long stream.

"Oh, a bunch of reasons. I'm a man of honor, for one. I've given my word as a man to my friend for as long as he needs me. I can't go back on that. The Kings of the Mark might be bound to Gondor by their position, but my personal loyalty is to Aragorn. He's a close friend and I value his friendship, not to mention all that he's done for Rohan. But, I owe no loyalty to Gondor or anyone else beyond that. Are you going to eat that?"

Having restored his composure and appetite, Eomer was peering into her bowl of stew. Without waiting for so much as a yea or nay, his spoon plunged into the depths of her bowl, resurfacing with her one remaining potato.

"You know I am!" Loti scolded stern faced, walloping him on the wrist with the bowl of her own spoon.

He cried out an ignominious, "Ow!" dropping the potato with a splat.

"And what's another reason?"

"I don't believe in doing that—shutting ourselves off from everyone, I mean." Eomer licked the juice from the spoon smacking off his wrist, smiling and waggling his own spoon in her direction. "Sometimes I wonder if those councilors try to control me because they think I'll turn out like great grandfather Fengel. Not that they shouldn't worry about that," he corrected, returning his utensil to his bowl, "He was a dirty, greedy son of a bitch. He started this whole business of isolating Rohan from the rest of the world; limiting trade, raising taxes on his own people, all those sorts of things that go along with withdrawal. Nobody like him, even his own son, can you believe that? So, my grandfather—that's Thengel—he took off. Didn't come back 'til the old man was dead. People liked him, from what I understand, but the trouble had already started. Villages were being attacked, horses stolen… Now we know the enemy was around us the all along, but he didn't know the extent of it, so he cut us off even further thinking if we turned inward and away the enemy might leave us alone. Now Uncle Theoden," Eomer paused in the lecture of his family's petty squabbles, political beliefs and debilitating policies to nod politely to the young man who was lighting torches along the path. "Uncle Theoden, he was an isolationist, plain and simple. He was just doing what he thought was right, what he thought would protect his people from our enemies. I never agreed with it, and told him so, or I tried to, but I always did as he asked. I never questioned or countermanded him. Ever. I was always loyal to him. Always."

The spoon tapped the wooden table in certainty, evidently bothered that his loyalty and allegiance to family and country were ever questioned, but he attempted a good natured one shoulder shrug. "There's a lot more to it, but that's the long and short of it. Did you already know this or are you just letting me run on at the mouth?"

One corner of his lips curved upward as Loti shook her head and uttered an unlady like, "Uh-huh."

"Oh, good. Then I don't feel an ass for doing all the talking." Eomer took another bite of bread, speaking and chewing through it at the same time. "I only asked because people don't always see the reasons for an action. They don't see the politics, or the discussions, or the arguments, or the petty backstabbing behind closed doors. But, anyway, I'm getting off track. What I was getting around to is this: we live in a different world today. Pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist won't work anymore."

The passion was back in his voice and he pushed the bowl of food away, spoon and all. He leaned over the table on folded arms, speaking to her hushedly but intensely, as though he were taking her into his confidence. "Do you know that maybe only one in a hundred of these men can write their own name? Maybe! Most of them probably couldn't even recognize their name if it was written down! At least I know my letters and my numbers."

Loti snorted at that behind her hand, in lighthearted disagreement of his self aggrandizing opinions. "You've the worst handwriting I've ever seen!"

"Well," Eomer sat back, feigning semi-offense, "I may not be the best speller, but I'm damn good with the numbers. Admit it!"

There were more giggles from behind the hand, but Loti did the best she could to rearrange her face into an expression of austerity befitting the conversation. "I'm sorry," she apologized, slightly muffled, "I didn't mean to interrupt. Do go on."

"Mmmhmm," he replied, dubiously squinting one eye at her. "Well…what I meant to say was that nearly all of the Rohirrim can't read or write. We've been an oral culture mostly—singing and storytelling, that kind of thing—since the beginning of time. I want us to stay true to our history and our traditions, but I also want our people to prosper and to have better opportunities…more opportunities! I don't want generations of our people thinking they're bound to the land as farmers and peasants when they don't have to be. If they want more, I want them to feel they _could _have more. We can't cut ourselves off and expect to prosper and live better lives." He spoke rapidly and with increased eagerness whenever a topic close to his heart was being discussed.

With some uncertainty, his voice changed again, becoming calmer and more restrained, but with no less devotion. "I was thinking, maybe if our children could read and write a whole new world would be open to them. It's probably not important that they read books like Mediations on a Life by Elendil or learn trigonometry or Numenorian history like I did, but I don't think it's asking too much for them to learn the Rohirric alphabet and some simple mathematics, do you?"

"Who taught you to read?" Loti asked curiously, sucking stew gravy off the hem of her belled sleeve. Damn, now it would have to be washed.

Eomer answered proudly after taking a long sip of ale. "Oh! My mother did. She was sent to university in Gondor for just a little while before she married my father. My father could read and write, not very well, though. But he insisted that me and my sister learn how. Both my folks wanted me to go to university, too and Uncle Theoden even had a private tutor for us." He stopped, shyly shaking his head with quick motions, his mouth contorted in a regretful sneer. "Ah, well." Those two words encompassing a decade's worth of soldiering and fighting and the loss of a youth he would never have back. A bit resentfully he added, "They'd have thought I was backwards, anyway. How many languages do you speak?" He wondered, quickly changing the subject.

Pouting her lips, Loti contemplated that, counting each off on her fingers. "Five I think. Quenya, Sindarin, Rohirric, of course, Westron, and some of the different dialects of the Haradrim. A couple of words of some of the Easterlings, too, but not enough to say I speak them, just what I've picked up here and there."

"So…tell me how a poor girl from Harad learned so many languages?"

She smiled brightly, remembering the many hours of instruction she had received and enjoyed as a child, reading, writing, and transcribing. "My mother taught me, too. She'd teach me between clients. She said if I was educated and had some refinement a wealthy man might want to marry me and I would be taken care of then. She said I had a knack for language, like my father, I guess."

It was a skill of which Loti was fiercely proud, but also very unusual. Few girls anywhere were taught to read or write, so it had been an accomplishment she secretly coveted. But, no longer…

A mildly embarrassed flush covered her cheeks as she toyed with her food, confessing, "I liked to read, too. I read all the time, and anything I could get my hands on, but my favorite things were always romances. I liked adventure, chivalry, love. A nice man would come to see my mother; I think he was a ship's captain. Men of the sea are always a romantic lot, if you didn't know. He'd always have a book to lend me. I was like every other girl, probably. I wanted to be a princess and dance at balls in pretty gowns and marry a prince. I suppose I never got over wanting that." Loti raised her head from stirring the contents of the bowl. Books were a commodity more precious than gold or gems and she knew she had been incredibly lucky to have read so many.

Eomer was watching her with interest, his mouth turned up into an easy, thoughtless smile that without asking urged her to continue. "Mother thought I was a bit too fanciful, but that was partly her fault because she'd tell me stories about elves and fairies and little people who made homes underground in little hills. What did you read?" She asked sharply when his smile broadened and his shoulders quivered slightly with a laugh.

"Oh, just what every boy who hasn't gotten laid yet might read. Wickedly depraved stories about the lustfulness of licentious she elves, or that's what my tutor said they were, anyway. She was from Gondor in case you couldn't tell, the bitchy old prude."

Sinking her teeth into her lip, Loti said in a sort of half giggling snort, "The truth comes out now… You're a pervert!"

The curve of Eomer's bedeviling smile curled up and he winked suggestively, eyes crinkling in the corners. "Of course I am. I'm a man, aren't I?"

"Oh, yes?"

"Oh. Yes," his voice had taken on a hint of amusing suggestiveness, as he crossed his arms over the table. "That's why you like us. Because we're filthy, perverted pigs."

"Is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"And why do you like us?" Loti inquired, shooting an eyebrow up almost to her hairline.

"You're women. Do we need another reason?"

"So…tell me about these books?" She asked, resting her chin on the heel of her palm.

He replied quite happily, "Oh, they were very educational."

"Oh, of course…"

"I enjoyed the pictures the most."

"Did you?"

"Most helpful, I assure you."

"I'm sure they were. You learned well, I see."

Leaning in, Eomer licked his lips subconsciously, taunting her with, "I could teach you a thing or two."

"Mmm," Loti hummed a regrettable apology while forcing a tight smile. "I don't think so."

"Never know, you might enjoy it."

Her body was beginning to feel warm and fluid from his flirtation but she still answered with a firm, "I'm sure I would not!", even though she thought she might.

Eomer smiled hugely at her refusal, sparking even the dark depths of his eyes, and his voice turned cajoling. "Didn't you wonder why I wanted to know if you were an elf? I finally thought I'd find out if she elves were as lusty and wicked as the stories say."

"You mean to say you've never….? With all your experience?" She had repeatedly heard the stories of his escapades and was astonished by his lack of expertise in this one area.

"Na-ah. Never had the chance," he stated, and then lifted his eyebrows in optimism, "But there's a first time for everything. It wouldn't be as much fun if I knew everything."

"So, you were—" Loti prompted.

"Hoping you would teach _me_ a thing or two."

"Oh, too bad," she pouted mockingly, pushing her lips out exaggeratedly. "Looks like you'll have to settle for an ordinary woman…or two." The last was said in very dry tones.

He huffed all the air out through his nose; part laugh, part rueful amusement, part acknowledgement of her disapproval of his drunken tryst a few months past. "Mmmm, _that_ I didn't find out about until I was older."

The retort came crisp to cover her ignorance. "Well, I do not see how _that_ is done. You only have one prick. I've seen it! It is not capable of being in two places at once."

Eyes wide in disbelief, Eomer blurted a shocked, "You mean you don't know? You've never—had anybody …do _that_?"

"No. What, do you take turns or something?"

At that Eomer laughed uncontrollably, more from the cockamamie look on her face than anything else, his shoulders shaking and eyes squinshed shut in his mirth.

"Oh, gods, girl," he sighed finally, brining himself under control, "you are naïve!"

The stubborn square set of her jaw told him she wasn't too pleased with his observation, so he leaned forward again, heavy lidded and long lashed, suggesting, "Would you like to learn how that's done, just you and me?" He cocked his head in the far off direction of his bed. "We don't need a third. I'll teach you myself. I promise you'll like it."

Through much of the banter he had kept his remarks light and flirtatious as he always did with women, be they friend or lover. But now, with the ache of need already present, his balls grew more taught with the desire of tasting and knowing her in such a carnal and erotically intimate way. He imagined her fingers twined in his long hair, forcing his mouth and lips and tongue against the honey slicked wetness between her spread thighs, tasting, exploring. Would she be sweet? Salty? Tangy? Would she allow him to teach her new pleasures and how to trust him as her lover not just her lord? Even if she didn't like it, and what woman didn't, he certainly would.

It was so wrong to want her in such a way! And so difficult to deny his want of her body, a thing he had never had to do until now. If she refused to lie with him, and for her sake, Eomer hoped she did, he would need to find relief elsewhere. He had gone too long without the comfort and elation a woman's body could give him.

Loti stretched a hand across the table, patting him relievedly on the arm. "And I promise you, that is never going to happen," she said with sweetness rimmed in condescension.

Unwilling to be out done, he couldn't resist adding with a twist of his lips and a flirtatious huskiness in his voice, "If you ever change your mind, I'd be happy to show you." He raised the pewter mug of ale halfway to his lips and paused, a thought suddenly occurring. "Didn't you ever think that was strange?"

Loti laid both of her hands flat on the rough, wooden table top with a confused shake of the head. "What was strange?"

"About your mother?"

"What about my mother?" Echoed Loti.

"That she was a whore and she was educated. She'd have to be to teach you to read and write in five languages! It's hard enough to find educated women, and when you do they're usually high born. That's not odd to you?"

She didn't answer right away, but, when she did eventually, she blushed and said, "I guess I took it for granted. We lived by the docks near the sea. There were not a lot of children around, especially girls. I…didn't really have any friends to know how they lived. All I had were books. And my imagination."

Eomer felt like he'd been hit with a bag full of bricks. That darn book she read over and over…it wasn't just a book filled with words, confessions of a love long lost. It was her friend, her only connection to a lost father, a dead mother and her own humanity. No wonder it was so precious. It was the only possession that had really ever been hers. He had mixed feelings now about using it against her as leverage. Part of him felt dirty. What an arrogant, insensitive jerk he had been! If anyone should understand it should be him! But the other part felt grateful. Whatever fate had put her into his hands, she had made his life so much easier.

"Come on," he said, pushing away from the table, "Let's go back."

The sun had gone down and the stars had come up, glistening like diamonds underwater, leaving their world in the clear, black crystal of night, the fiery torches the only charm available to ward off the shadows of an unknown dark. Eomer and Loti walked the path to his tent slowly, side by side. In what dim light ringed the horizon the torches along the path lit him in metallic hues illuminating the bronze of his skin and the golds of his wavy hair turned copper.

There was nothing immediately pressing, no urgent emergencies that needed tending, only possibility of rest and the half teasing promise of pleasure to be given and received lingering between them, unspoken.

Eomer hesitated to ask about her life pre-Rohirrim. He knew a few of the details, but had stopped asking about what led her to the life of a spy and killer after leaving her mother's house. Whenever he did try, she would pucker up tighter than his own asshole around a queer elf. But he couldn't bear the silence and her averted gaze any longer. Maybe a different approach was needed.

"What would have happened to you if you had stayed with your mother?"

Loti shrugged, lifting her shoulders in the weakest of ways. "I'm not sure really. She thought I was the one who was unrealistic, but I think she wasn't much different. No decent man would have wanted me, even if I was pretty, not with no father's name. If no one would have me… We were poor. We needed the money a man would pay for me so eventually my brother could be set up with an apprenticeship."

Pay for her? Eomer was appalled and repulsed, not only that she spoke so offhandedly about something so wretched, but also that she accepted it as normal or appropriate for her to be treated so! Pay for her…like she was a goat or a wagon of hay. Was there nothing viler than a man owning another, purchasing another's worth?

Despite himself and a blazing need to denounce these arcane acts, he let her go on. "Someone would have paid for my maidenhead. And I am pretty, so a wealthy man would have wanted me for a mistress."

_So she can start the process all over again_, he thought caustically, bearing unwanted and unacknowledged, bastard children so they too could be sold into servitude against their wishes.

"Your mother would have done that? Auctioned off your—" And then Eomer checked his rising temper, "Is that how you came to be here? You sold yourself?" He asked in what he thought was a very smooth way.

"No! It wouldn't have made a difference in any case. There was nothing for me there! I—Eomer," she said his name in a long exhalation of breath and ran a hand over her wrinkled brow, attempting to ease the tension there, "can we please not talk about this."

They had not stopped to converse, but kept up their slow pace along the lighted footpath. Loti crossed her arms beneath her breasts in a posture of self protection.

"I'm only trying to help, to understand."

"I know, but—just not right now, please."

They lapsed into another long, unbearable silence made even more uncomfortable by the loud crunching of the dry grass beneath their feet. Eomer knew he should say something, anything to distract them, to make him feel less like an idiotic buffoon.

He groaned with internal resignation, realizing in several unrepeatable cuss words, he was would have to make small talk.

XXX

In the event, he didn't need to. Loti, naturally inquisitive, was able to restart the conversation on her own. Lords, knew he wouldn't be able to do it…

Making small talk with EomerKing was a stumbling, painful, excruciatingly awkward business for everyone involved. And she, having spent countless hours in idleness with him, knew it. When he began again after some time with, "I, ah…Have you, um…seen Nyssa's new foal?", Loti closed her eyes, pleaded with the Valor for strength of patience, and skillfully and dexterously redirected the conversation towards something more suitable to his expertise; namely his patent dislike for Gondor and their uppity, lordly views of the Rohirrim.

He was a quiet man, although amiably social, by no means was he a wall flower, and tended to blabber on loudly and rudely at the mouth when drunk, but his conversational abilities were better put to use on topics he found interesting. It helped that he was also highly intelligent, an observation one would be hard pressed to see sometimes, and once past the first few floundering exchanges, he could be fascinating to listen to.

"In Gondor they see us as heathens. They look down on us like our culture is less, like our beliefs are less, like our people are less, just because our descendants are split from theirs and it's not clear exactly where we come from. That's not to say it's everyone," he amended hastily, holding back the fabric door of his tent so she could enter first. The tent was brightly lit inside despite the shadowy blackness beyond and a new black brazier-like candelabra hung from the tent's roof supports, which Eomer had obligingly banged his head on for most of the last week. It usually smelled of two things inside the tent, either horse or sweat, but now there was the pleasantly sweet hint of burning candles. "Most Gondorians are pleasant welcoming people, a lot like Rohirrim. But there's always a few who see others as inferior. Elitists. They have no humility. You'll see a lot of that when we go to Minas Tirith."

Loti, who had crossed the tent to his desk and was rummaging haphazardly through the stacks of well organized papers, jerked her head abruptly over her shoulder. "We're going to Minas Tirith? Me? When? For how long?"

"Of course you're going," he admonished, "You're my secretary. I'll need you there. It won't be for a while though. Sometime in the fall."

He stooped and yanked the shirt over his head, tossing it with accuracy into one of the open chests behind the desk that held his clothing, complaining in a grumbling, Rohirric way about roasting like a pig on a spit and fingering blonde hairs out of his eyes.

Turning away when he began undoing the laces of his britches, she saw the pants similarly follow the same fate the shirt had, landing with precision inside the chest.

"I've never been to Minas Tirith. I've seen it of course, but never actually been there." She was shuffling some papers through her hands, not actually reading, only attempting to give Eomer a bit of privacy as he disrobed.

She heard him pulling on his badly wrinkled and sleep rumpled linen pants.

He was whisking back the covers of his bed when she asked, "Why are we going?"

Her answer was a bellowing curse. She reacted with a jump, startling over the ink pot and scattering letters and requisitions everywhere. His initial profanity was followed by a damning, "Gods _fucking _damn it all, that conniving bastard! Eothain!"

Loti was busy moving heaps of papers out of the flood of running, dripping ink while simultaneously trying to keep the obnoxiously long sleeves of her gown unmarred, but cocked her head in time to see Eomer rake his hand viciously through his hair, face and lips white and ashen as the moon.

"Eomer, what is your problem?" She said it more rudely than she intended, but didn't care, abandoning all hope of rescuing any more pages from the deluge. Formal burial of these and a period of mourning for her cramped fingers following their rewriting would have to wait.

His eyes were fixed like arrow points on his bedding.

"What? What is it?" She prodded, coming around to stand beside him.

"Ghaw, woman!" He scolded, thrusting out an arm to stop her from approaching any nearer, "Don't get any closer to it!"

Quickly darting her eyes to the bed, her gaze found the object in question just in time to see it oil beneath his pillow.

"Oh, no!" Giggled Loti, turning pink in the cheeks. "You're not!"

"Oh, yes," Confessed Eomer, sourly, "I am."

Swatting his hand from her waistline, she stepped to the head of his bed, thwacking his pillow authoritatively into his gut. The thingamajig causing Eomer's intense, hair raising, blood draining fear was a mottled, iridescent black color, possibly sixteen inches long and about as round as her middle finger.

"Don't—Oh, gods, no! Don't touch it!" He cried in obvious distress, clutching his scalp, the deep, richness of his voice cracking and strained. "Eothain said the black ones are venomous! Damn it! Keep it away! I hate snakes!" His finger pointed suddenly at the doorway as he hopped back a pace.

"The black ones usually are."

"Aw, woman, get it out of here, then! And be careful with it! Don't let it bite you!"

Loti had seized the serpent by the neck, or what she supposed was his neck, and its thin, black, madly wriggling body had scrunched up and wrapped around her arm like a set of ebony bracelets.

"He won't hurt you. He's just a baby." She assured him, holding the little monstrosity out from behind his invisible ears for Eomer's ophidiophobic approval.

He swallowed hard, keeping a scurrilous, dilated eye on the creature. The snake, finding Eomer's treatment offensive, made his own rude gesture, sticking out his forked tongue.

Loti was riffling through the bed clothes, searching for any other slithery serpents. There were none.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Let it go," she said, and then amended quickly, "Not close by. Maybe over where the horse's grain is kept. He'll help keep the mice out of it. Here, why don't you pet it first?" She thrust the squirming thing under his nose, more or less to see the big man jump like a girl.

Eomer flinched and jerked his head, taking another step back and bumping into the desk.

Fisting her snake free hand on her hip, she joked lightly, "Did you forget to put your big boy pants on this morning?"

"Ha ha, laugh it up." His tone was extremely dry, suggesting he didn't see the humor in her joke, or in Eothain's.

"I never knew you to be irrational."

He regarded the snake warily and with the same dislike he might show an orc or some other horribly disfigured creature, the demonic little bugger.

"Isn't that what a fear of something is?" He observed astutely, "Next time I see that bastard, Eothain, I'm going to string him up by the balls."

If there was a punishment worse than night soil duty, Eothain would be on it, for a month at least after this stunt. It would be that long before he could sleep without visions of the slimy beasties eeling about under the covers and sinking its sharp fangs into his fleshy ass.

"Well, don't be too hard on him. From the sound of it, his wife would have yours if she ever found out. You said yourself he's a prankster. You're lucky to have such a good friend."

"Yah, well, luck is all a matter of perspective. I guess with a friend like him, I don't need any enemies." He smiled weakly and unconvincingly, tracing the line of the white scar across his belly with abstraction.

She was scratching the top of its diamond shaped head gently with a forefinger and practically nuzzling it. He was feeling green as a frog and suppressed an overwhelming urge to gag when its sliver of a forked tongue darted out, touching her cheek. Sampling her for ripeness, he supposed.

A small shudder ran through his body before he drew himself upright and squared his shoulders, summoning all the courage he could. "Maybe I should take it for you. I wouldn't want to see you get bit."

Surprised, she laid her hand on his arm, ceasing his preoccupied rubbing, and asked, flattered by the offer, "You would do that for me?"

The snake frightened him; that was abundantly clear. It was his egotistical need to be seen as protector and defender that led to putting himself in harm's way in spite of his fear.

No, Loti told herself, that was unfair. It wasn't vainglory that made him offer. It was the honor and bravery of strong man in the face of his greatest fear.

He nodded, lips pushed stubbornly forward. "Yes. It's my job to protect you, isn't it?"

"Well, that is very sweet of you to offer, but there's really no need." She was biting off a smile.

"No need?" He repeated affronted.

"Oh, no! This is a sort of bull snake," she waved away his concern for her safety. "Surely you've seen a bull snake before. They're not deadly."

He made a low, rumbling, unbelieving grunt of assent. "That doesn't mean I have to like them."

"You didn't actually think Eothain would put a poisonous snake in your bed, did you? He wanted to scare you, not kill you!"

"He came pretty close," Eomer assured, settling himself back against the desk.

Loti wrapped the snake carelessly around her neck like an absurd necklace, its flat, nasty, little head pressed flat to her chest, a living black jewel against her skin, dangling just above her breasts. Another wave of panicked nausea gripped him and he searched the ground for the chamber pot just in case. He hoped she was right, that the thing was not venomous, because his mind's eye could see perfectly its needle like teeth biting into those small, rounded, spheres of flesh. The thought gave him a chill up the backbone. _What a waste of nice tits,_ he told the snake, soundlessly, _I saw them first, mate_.

"Tamed him already?" He gulped, dryly.

"Oh! Yes!" She answered, smoothing fingers over the reptile's sleek body, as though she were showing off a piece of expensive jewelry, and with a wink added, "Maybe I'll do the same to you someday."


	11. Chapter 11 Demons Purged

A/N: Hello again and thanks for reading! This would have been posted sooner, but I suffered from some writer's insecurity, rewrote a large section of this, got terribly sick and didn't write anything for a whole week and then this website practically blew up. This is probably one of my shorter chapters! lol! When I started writing this chapter, what follows the first section of this was completely unplanned. But I decided it was a neccessity to put down. This whole writing process is very interesting! Down a little further, this really isn't meant to be a love scene, and you'll see what I mean. It's more just Eomer being Eomer. The next chapter should be relatively short too and I hope funny! Oh, in case you've never seen this word before dishabille it is pronounced dayz- ah - bee. As always, my sincerest hope is that you are entertained. Thanks for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! LOL!

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"Izz al Din," Eothain began, reading from the small stack of papers he held in his hand, "Secretive man, that's for sure. Finding somebody who knows anything about him is scarcer than rocking horse shit. Damn near nobody wants to talk about him."

He sat in Eomer's chair, behind his desk, feet canted up, while Eomer and Loti each took up residence on a corner, legs hitched up like flamingos. On the tip of Eothain's straight nose sat a pair of newly acquired spectacles he didn't need. He wouldn't say where he got them, but insisted they made him appear more dignified.

Sorting through the pages, he perused his notes, explaining, "al Din's the chieftain of the largest tribe in the northern part of Harad here. His lands extend all the way along the river to the coast." He flicked a finger at a map of Harad and her plentiful and multifarious tribal kingdoms lying open on the desk outlining the vast expanse of al Din's territory and the sliver of land he controlled along the river to the sea in the west. "His headquarters are here, for obvious reasons, but here's the interesting part. Before he was chieftain, he was a merchant; made his fortune trading textiles and spices. Took charge of the clan by force. Pretty bloody coup it was too, from my understanding. He hired thugs from other clans to form his army that time. He held the tribe at sword point so to speak. They had no choice but to swear allegiance and accept him."

"You learned all that from playing cards?" Loti wondered aloud.

"That and a lot more, lassie! Men will tell you anything so as long as the beer's flowing."

Eothain, beyond just being sociable, had a way of extracting information from people in the subtlest and slickest of ways. He was charming and dapper with ladies, and charismatic and jovial with men. It was no surprise to find that Eomer, competent at recognizing unappreciated talents, put his gift of gab and gossip too god use. Eothian was his chief information officer. Not quite a spy, more like a social informant.

He had dropped his idiomatic way of speaking, for the most part, a thing he only did in the company of Eomer, and Loti had a sneaking suspicion Eothain was far more educated than he let on.

"Your little buddy there, Asif, his clan's lands were here," Eothain pointed to a small slice of land at the far eastern end of al Din's tribal lands. "Asif wasn't lying; al Din decimated them with his thug army and then absorbed whoever was left. Doesn't sound like he treats them very well, either, but, they're not his people so no surprise there."

"What else did you find out?" Eomer prompted.

Eothain scratched under chin, thoughtfully. "Oh, plenty! His wife's dead, whether or not he killed her nobody seems to know. Maybe she got in the way maybe not. Has two son's a little younger than us that he's priming to take over for him. He's got a few brothels… I said he was a merchant? Well, he still is."

What information Eothain couldn't extract through the odd drunken tavern patron or sheer inquisitiveness, he found out for himself, spending the last several weeks stalking the movements of al Din, his family, business associates and personal acquaintances.

"I guess oligarchy doesn't pay that well," Eomer interjected, with a wry smile and an ironic tone. "What does he trade in?"

Eothain raised his eyes to Eomer who was frowning intently. "Little bit of everything. He takes spices, cloth and indigo up north and brings back little bits of this and that. Dol Amroth lace, wine, iron ore, hides, wood."

"Doesn't sound that unusual," Loti contended.

"No, that's what I thought, too. Pretty ordinary stuff for a man who's supposedly running arms and black powder. So I spent a few days poking around the docks down there and talking with your buddy Indalecio. What did you two tell that man anyway? For some reason he thinks you emerged naked and bloodied from a mountain top with a sword in your hand. Imagine the scare your mother had!" He seemed to think himself very clever and laughed rowdily. Eomer didn't think so.

"And…" Eomer waited with growing impatience.

"And," Eomer drawled, mocking his leader's own tone, "his servant told me Indalecio said al Din's his biggest competitor. They're in some sort of pissing contest. They put on the happy face in public but really they can't stand each other. So Indalecio says al Din isn't making his money importing lace and wine. So I said, no, really? So he says al Din's got ships docking in the night real sneaky-like, unloading in the dark. I'll bet my left nut it's not just weapons, it's human cargo, too."

Loti butted in, asking, "How do you know?"

She wasn't inclined to like this Indalecio anymore now than on their first meeting in spite of Eomer's beliefs of the man's honorable sensibilities. From the sound of it Indaledio wasn't indisposed to running his own 'human cargo.' He probably would have liked Eomer to sell her, so he could turn around and resell her himself, to al Din, at considerable profit, too!

"It sure ain't lace, girlie. Let's put it this way, I don't have to smell horse shit to know its horse shit."

Eomer appeared apprehensive in asking, but all concerned knew it needed to be asked, "Human cargo? From where? Did he know?"

Rohirric views on the value of women, life and their role in humanity were clear, to them at least, and voiced, often times, very loudly. Women were the bearers of life and the keeper of a man's home and his heart. She was, therefore, treated as an equal to man in the eyes of Rohirric law and society. A Rohirric man who found his women considered anything less would be gravely insulted. All life to the Rohirrim was precious, too; preserved and revered to the best of their ability…when it was possible. Even in the solemn face of bodily death, life was thought to live on somewhere in the vast reaches of time and depths space. Customary funeral celebrations were not always considered to be sad affairs and held to remind the grievers they would again meet the dead in some sort of everlasting. Slavery and indenture were considered cruel and inhumane, a vile atrocity and an abhorrence to the very nature of a man's free spirit. They were the kindest and most generous of people but also the fiercest, philosophically fatalistic and the most bloody stubborn.

Eothain made a disgusted sound, very similar to the noises Eomer made, Loti thought. "That's a tricky one because Indalecio says he's not selling them down at the slave markets. If al Din was a slaver, he wouldn't bother bringing them in at night. He'd do it in plain sight, right in front of us. There's nothing we can do about it, right? Not on his side of the river anyway. Indalecio thinks he's got buyers lined up beforehand, then kidnaps what he needs to fill his orders. Women mostly, some boys. Whatever the client wants. Exotics bring the highest prices, fair skinned, dark skinned, fair haired…Bought for concubines or house slaves, I guess. Then he runs the weapons in on the same ship."

"He seems to have it all covered. Merchant. Pirate. Smuggler," Loti observed thinking of the chocolate skinned girl she had chased out of Eomer's tent, and, also of her own fair golden complexion and brilliant blue eyes.

"Ya-huh. Al Din's smarter than we give him credit for."

"Yah? Why's that?" Eomer said.

"He knows if we caught him with kidnapped women, especially if they were kidnapped Gondorians, it would give us a reason to go over there and depose him. But… since we don't have any proof he's actually trafficking women, let alone kidnapped women from up north…" He trailed off, leaving Eomer to cringe unhappily.

"Then I don't have a reason to take our Riders over there and burn the damn place to the ground."

"That's right!" Eothain agreed, "Gondor's council's tied their own hands not wanting you to make a fuss. And while they're bossing you around and buttering up this chieftain and brown nosing with that enemy, it's likely their own women, and probably their allies' women, being sold into slavery! And if you _do_ go over there using that as a reason and don't find anything—"

Loti was following Eothain's line of thinking and snorted, breaking in with, "And you're not going to find anything—"

Eothian winked broadly at her understanding, "You'll cause a political nightmare for the Council and they'll discredit you from Arnor to Umbar in front of al Din and all the other chieftains saying that you're a war mongering warlord and you didn't have permission, or you're a hot head and out of control."

The two men turned to see Loti unsuccessfully stifling a giggle. Eothain's big mouth split into a clowning grin, teeth covered in a yellowish brown plaque obscured mostly by his bushy and tightly curling beard. Eomer did not smile. Eothian abruptly sobered, brushing aside this bit of joviality while Loti's tongue swept obsequiously over her own smooth, straight, white teeth just to make sure.

"You could lose any power you've gained, eh? But if you don't go over there…"

This time it was Eomer who interrupted. "We'll never find the weapons or the powder kegs."

"Right again. If we don't find the weapons, we'll never know where they're going, or who's buying them. You know, at first, I didn't think it was real smart idea to run the weapons and the women together, too much risk in getting caught. But I can see now why he does it. There's really less of a risk if he brings them in together because fewer shipments lowers the chances we might catch him red handed."

Loti had been nibbling her lip, but now ventured to ask the obvious. "So why bother moving some of the weapons over land if he's bringing them in by boat too?"

Eothain gave her a one shoulder shrug, speculating, "Could be a sacrificial shipment, just to see what we'd do."

"Those two barrels of powder, though," Eomer put in, "they were worth something. Swords and weapons are replaceable, but I can't see a man like al Din just giving up those casks to see what we'd do. It's only two barrels, but still, black power's dangerous to make and expensive."

"It's not cheap to send out a boat for such a small amount of cargo… Maybe he gets what he can get while he can get it and brings it down over land."

"Or," Loti added her own hypothesis to the mix of conjectures and suppositions, "it's a little of both. Asif's wagon load could have been a distraction. Something to draw your attention away and keep you occupied while he runs a bigger load right under your nose."

Both men nodded agreeably at this; it was a possibility.

"Well," Eothain said with a loud exhalation, fanning himself with the short stack of papers in his hand, "Suppose it don't matter how he's getting the stuff over there. He's getting it."

There was a long moment of quiet between the three. The sounds of life continuing outside the solitude of Eomer's tent seemed excruciatingly loud what with the whickering of horses, the voices of talking men, the jangling of harness and tack. Each kept his own eyes averted, not wanting to ask what needed to be said but knowing for the good of all it must be. Loti felt the anxiety in the room, a heavy weight of tension in her own chest.

It was EomerKing who finally broached to topic. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Eothain stopped fanning himself and tossed the stack down on the desk with a papery _plop_.

Their blue gazes met head on, grim and foreboding. "Are you sure you want to do this, Eomer?" His friend urged cautiously, taking off the spectacles and tossing them on the table with a tiny clinking noise

In all the months Loti had known these two, never once had Eothain referred to Eomer by his given name. Rooster, Gelding, Sodder, Tosser, Boy, His Majesty the Royal Pain in the Ass were all regularly heard and commonly used. He was even jokingly called Eomund the Younger occasionally when he became too bossy. But never Eomer.

Eothain had done his research on the man al Din, knew much more that Eomer did not. This would be a deadly serious game, its outcome unknown. She liked Eothain very much indeed, depended on Eomer, and her heart twisted in fear for them both, all because of a use of a name.

But Eothain didn't stop there, speaking candidly in a way a man might to his closest and oldest friend. "Boy, he's as ruthless as you are kind hearted. Aaahh, don't give me that modesty horseshit, either," he scolded crossly, as Eomer shifted his position on the desk corner, making a sneering, dismissive face. "You're the only one who doesn't see it. And don't go thinking Izz al Din's held back by councilors and politics. He's got two or three times as many men who're willing to fight and die for him than you do here. He'll come after us if he thinks were getting in his way. He's a rich man and ambitious. A little thing like EomerKing and his two thousand or so men isn't going to stop him."

On a long sigh Eomer answered. "Do I have a choice?"

The question wasn't meant to be answered. Both men knew he did not. And both men knew Eothain would do whatever his friend, not his king, asked, but that didn't stop him from scowling, drawing his ruddy brows together in concern. "You've seen what that stuff can do as well as I have," Eomer added in what was an unneeded effort to convince Eothian.

"Seen it! Ha!" Eothain spouted a short laugh and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as he dug a finger into one ear, "Yah, I've seen it. Still can't hear right from it, either, and got the knot on the back of my head to prove it."

"By now somebody'll have told him some big northerner's been nosing around, asking questions about him. He's bound to figure out who it is and what we're after."

"So you don't mean to be subtle about it?" Eothain comfirmed.

"Only as subtle as we have to be. He's not dumb. He'll know what were looking for and that we're itching to catch him at it. Until then we'll just have to wait and see what Asif brings us."

XXX

As the days passed into high summer, hot and laborious, the Horse Lords of the Riddermark subsided into their existence, entertaining themselves in the way of men far from home, with drinking, gambling, whoring, and other lewd and debaucherous acts of chicanery and gluttony. No man seemed exempt from the boredom of camp life and each man sought his own release and reasonings to participate in the goings on.

Eothain lost a substantial amount of Eomer's money playing cards one night in an attempt to uncover more of Izz al Din's dirty laundry. Word did come of the birth of his newest son, who just happened to be a girl; inciting Eothain and his closest twenty two friends to get stinking, stumbling, dry heaving drink. Wolf and Eoin, gallant gentleman both, were involved quite a large taproom fist fight. Precipitated by defending some woman's honor, and aided by a hogshead of dark ale and a handful of other Eorlingas, the situation resolved itself when the tavern caught fire. Aric met the news that his erstwhile lover was once again pregnant with a groan like a hungry bear after months of hibernation. Hifur, whom Loti saw only on occasion, succeeded in singeing off several inches of his glorious black beard whilst engrossed in his scientific need to exploded stuff, much to the unspoken delight of more than one Horse Lord. One fine dark evening, Loti's labors for the day completed, she plucked a lantern from its nail and headed for the privy, in a pre bedtime ritual. She jiggled the latch on the wobbly privy door, and if fell open limply with a feminine gasp and a throaty male groan wafting from the grimy interior. Bringing the light up higher to get a better look inside, there was a toss of blonde hair and Eomer lifted his head, distracted from his industrious nibbling. Eomer, occupying the cramped space from stem to stern with his bare breasted companion and otherwise amorously engaged, shot Loti a level blue look, reached out, hooked a finger in the latch and shut the door, seemingly unaware of the privy's stink.

Most evenings were spent around the campfire talking, singing, or listening to stories of one kind or another, or participating in the Rohirric man's favorite activity, gossiping. Every man was invited to share the hospitality of their king's hearth and welcomed with alacrity and too much ale. Some nights as many as fifty men might be about the fire, deep voices humming like bees in the hive before buzzing off to investigate and pollinate another's fire.

There was a man from Edoras named Tellyn who was a frequent visitor to the fire and always heralded with much excitement. Tellyn, a tall young man with dark hair and a roguish countenance, who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth was part Dunlendish, not everyone could be full blooded Rohirrim, after all, was a farmer by trade but musician by night, and would spend his evenings plying his skills at various gatherings. His instrument of choice, by way of its portability, had a flat wooden body, with incurving sides and a long, fretted neck and peg head with knobs for six strings.

His songs, anything from drinking tunes, to battle hymns to ballads, were in turns hilarious, raunchy, bloody, tender and sad and all were encouraged to join in the singing.

One muggy summer's night, much to Loti's shock and amusement, Tellyn, seated in the place of honor on his king's right, turned and handed the instrument to Eomer. His face burned red with embarrassment even under the brown of his tan and orange ring of firelight when as many as forty half stupored men assaulted His Royal Majesty, Eomer, Son of Eomund, Eighteenth Ruler of the Kingdom of Rohan with catcalls and raucous bellows.

"So you play more than just the skin flute, do you, Rooster?" Cried one man.

"My sister said those fingers were talented!"

"Is that how you get so many women, then? You sing them to sleep first?" Came a clear heckling from across the fire.

"He has to or they'll find out he's too quick on the draw!"

Tentatively, he took the instrument out of Tellyn's hands, placing it over his knee, sheepishly plucked out a few cords and began to sing.

He was good. Very good, in fact. Free of its normal throaty rasp, Eomer's singing voice was a deep, resonant baritone, dark and sweet as melted chocolate poured into caramel, refined through years of secret practice. His true talents were revealed during the ballads, when the beauty of his voice and the passion he imbued it the words over shadowed even the simplest accompaniment.

She listened captivated, leaning forward on her knees longing to hear every note, every pluck of the strings, wondering again of this oddity who was both sword wielding soldier and sweet voiced singer. His words floated to her like ashes from the fire, then drifted up to the heavens, an offering in song to the stars.

Loti, too, was not without her own personal triumphs. Eomer had finally given her a place to sleep.

One afternoon with a gruff, "Here," he pulled back the flap of a small tent, revealing a modestly decorated interior, complete with a rickety camp bed and an ancient table for her "gods awful clutter"; the clutter in question being one pink scarf, one gown, one wooden box containing a hairbrush and mirror, and one leather bag full of soaps all of which took up approximately two square feet of space in one of his trunks.

When she stared up at him in open mouthed delight, he grunted, sounding exactly like a constipated truffle hog.

And then there was Glullyn. He was generous, attentive and handsome, a young man of excellent character, and a natural horseman. He was a fine and worthy addition to any man's army. Any army that was except Eomer's…

Eomer disliked the lad, or rather, he disliked the boy's intentions and affections for Loti.

"Men are only looking for one thing no matter what they say. You of all people should know that! Or are you too smitten with him to see it?" He snarled.

It was, she supposed, this sentiment that lead him to see she received her own private quarters.

In any case, Loti enjoyed spending as much time as possible with Glullyn. Eomer was right, though, he was quite obviously sweet on her. He never attempted anything so outwardly blatant as holding hands or kissing though, probably fearing Eomer's threat to emasculate any man who touched her without his almighty blessing.

At night, when time allowed, Loti would sit next to him around the fire, dissolving into fits of giggles at something he said, Eomer's shadowed face frowning across the flames in unacceptable disapproval. She found his overbearing protectionism reassuring. It meant Glullyn's feelings for her were more than just the imaginings of a silly girl; that maybe it _was_ possible for a girl like her to love and be loved in return. Would he ask Eomer's permission court her when they both returned to the Riddermark? She hoped so. She liked Glullyn, too.

Revelry and high spirits couldn't last forever, though.

Riots were a constant threat and had become an all too frequent occurrence, even on the northern side of the river. Large hordes of men would pour into the streets, wielding sticks or clubs, hurtling stones at the horses, denouncing the Rohirrim's presence, renouncing Gondorian rule; violence their main avenue of airing grievances.

Two men had died, pulled from their mounts in a crushing onslaught of insurgent rioters, and beaten in the street before their fellows could regroup and drive back the swarm of angry humanity. The Riders of Rohan were fierce and mighty men, but even they were not immortal.

They had no families, no wives or children left behind, but they were young men. Too young to meet their end frightened and alone.

Loti had gone with Eomer to see the dead men, although he wished otherwise. Eomer was no stranger to death and brutality, but had not ever become immune to it; an undervalued emotion in a man who, by right of his title, could send another to his death.

The crowd of men surrounding the bodies parted, allowing him to pass. EomerKing's Riders stood grim and quiet, hushed by his presence and the immediate awareness of their own mortality. He lowered his eyes to the two lifeless men laid with due care upon the sandy ground, the blood and bruises of their struggles fresh on their still warm bodies, the acrid smell of death in the air.

Then he stepped forward, erect and strong, separating himself from the secure anonymity of the crowd as though he had forgotten any of his men stood near. No sounds echoed in the clearing except for the sigh and wuffle of horses unnerved at the closeness of death as he knelt beside each man, dead faced himself, and placed a hand over their hearts, head bent in reverent humility. She knew he must touch the dead, so their ghosts would not haunt him, but Loti had no doubt that for Eomer, this was a very public way to perform a very private act.

What did he say to them, she wondered, studying him as he bowed before the fallen, yielding to them his pride. Did he thank them? Praise them? Commend their souls so that they may find peace? Did he pray for them? For himself? Did he beg their forgiveness?

It was an honorable death, she was given to understand. To die well, as in battle, would secure one's everlasting fame. It was accepted and expected. "All men must die," Eomer had stated quite plainly. Loti thought it truly a waste.

These warriors had been the first of his men to die here; a result of this clash of culture and politics and evil. They certainly would not be the last victims of this conflict.

Eomer spared no expense for the funeral celebration, knowing full well the importance of food and drink as a useful distraction. He attended only briefly.

It was not too long after this that Loti noticed a change in Eomer's behavior. He was moody and erratic to start with but he was becoming a man she almost couldn't recognize. Anti social wouldn't be a word she would use to describe him, but the passing of everyday aided his farouche mood and his need for solitude was growing, a want to seal himself away from the world. Eomer became withdrawn, quiet, and distant, drawn into himself like a snail into his shell or a wooly caterpillar feeling threatened. He would stare blankly, not listening, or pick up papers, not reading, walk about the camp listless and restless without any purpose or direction. He rarely spoke of anything, save work, and ate little, claiming he 'didn't feel like it.' Rutterless, he drifted from day to day like a ship at sea unable to anchor, buffeted by a power he could not control, helpless to help himself.

He did drink, though.

Loti rose from her bed late one night practically bursting, in need to find the privy. The masses that had circled the fire earlier, laughing and joking, had long since gone to their own beds. All but one.

Eomer sat all alone on a log before the dying embers, staring sightlessly into the white hot interior, hissing and popping with the occasional tongue of blue flame. His shoulders were hunched, elbows propped on his knees and he was singing very, very softly, his lips hardly moving, the words barely more than a hiss of air from his mouth. There was a bottle of something at his feet. Whiskey or ale? The blue eyes never lifted as she came nearer, staying fixed on the circle of fire before him in distraction and despair. Did he know she was there?

Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, as a perching bird's might. There was no movement from him beneath it, no flinching at her touch, no tension or startlement. His tune was an old one, sung in some ancient guttural language she didn't understand, yet somehow very beautiful. Still, she thought she didn't need to know the words to recognize the meaning of his low, sad crooning. This was a song of loss and pain.

"Eomer," she whispered, regrettably thinking she shouldn't have bothered him in this moment of privacy, "is…everything alright?"

No, of course it wasn't, she could see that plainly enough. But what else could she offer besides her compassion?

He did speak then, but did not turn his face from the fire. "Go away," Eomer insisted, his voice as distant as his thoughts.

Three days later Eomer didn't get out of bed.

Loti found the king still abed when she brought him his morning meal and sighed, thankful he had finally found peaceful sleep. She could handle any problems that arose, so with a smile, she left him to the world of his dreams. At mid morning, she poked her head in to check. His food was still on his desk, untouched. _Still asleep then_, she thought and backed out. By mid day Loti stood in the doorway, scowling deeply. His long, limp body lay half naked and still in the heat of the day, head buried under his pillow like an ostrich. Not asleep then. A thread of worry tugged in her belly. This was beyond just unusual behavior for Eomer. He was _always_ awake at the ass crack of dawn! Could he be sick?

Mid afternoon came and went and it was clear he would not be getting up. People were asking for him, and wondering. Could he sign this, come and attend to that, Firefoot bit one of the herd lads, would he give permission to have the gray bastard castrated, did he want to go and grab a pint, could the boys from Dunharrow have an extra keg of beer seeing as how they done extra patrols this week and Himself didn't even have to ask? By evening, Loti decided she must do something. The place could simply not run without him and who knew how long this might last.

She eased the flap back to find him still flat on his stomach, head still covered by the pillow. Her original plan was to rouse him commando raid style; march in, grab him about the balls and haul him forcibly out of bed by them. But as she stood there in the door with her eyes on him, the grip she held on her anger released, replaced with tenderness and sympathy that swelled her heart.

"It's just that sometimes a man just needs to work things out on his own. This is the first time you've seen it…" Eothain's words echo distantly in her mind. "It's gotten worse over the last year or so, but the man's got a lot on his mind. It'll happen again. Oh, and don't go asking him about it, either."

Don't ask him about it, because Eomer did not want to be felt sorry for.

She looked back to the man on the bed, physically so big and strong, proud and capable, reduced to this. Eomer's demons were strong though too, and growing stronger, it seemed with every passing day. "Kill himself? Ghaw, girl! He's not going to kill himself," Eothain had said. But now Loti wasn't so sure. Eomer was well known to be headstrong, rash, and reckless in battle, even careless and heedless of consequences at times. He may not gut himself with his own knife, but, in the throes of melancholy, might choose to die at the hand of his enemy, in a purposeful, premeditated martyrdom. Would that be how he finally achieved peace? By slipping his earthy bonds in battle so he could receive his immortality through song and story?

Was this why Gondor was so eager for him to marry and produce an heir? Surely his headlong spirit and inclination to act without thinking was well known. Aragorn was his friend, had fought with him in battle… Could he see it, too, his friend's self destructive proclivities? Did he worry his friend might die and leave his people with no figurehead, no leader and no one to follow? Did Aragorn worry as much for the Riddermark as he did for his friend, or his own country and people?

Loti felt a moments stinging pity for Aragorn. The man really was in a tight spot.

And what would become of his people if Eomer were to die with no son? Who would lead them? The man called Erkenbrand? His sister? His sister's son, if she ever had one? His sister's husband? Would the Kingdom of Rohan cease to exist; the Oath of Eorl forfeit with EomerKing's death and no male heirs or relatives to succeed him? Would the Rohirrim, a people with hundreds of years of their own history and society submit to Gondorian rule?

She swallowed thickly, suddenly fearful. Eomer wouldn't do such a thing, would he? Let his demons take over and succumb to them…much as her mother had…

_No_, she told herself, then, _no_, again with more conviction.

Above all things, Eomer was a man of honor and she was well aware of his feelings towards Gondorian aristocracy; the Prince Imrahil and the man Faramir who would soon be his brother in law excluded. He wouldn't choose to end his own life, if only out of sheer dislike of Gondor's nobles.

She scarcely knew how she made it to his side. Lowering herself, Loti perched on the edge of his bed, the frame creaking a little with her weight, slight though it was, but he did not stir. Her hand lifted, as if free of her own will to rest on the broad, flat angle of his shoulder blade, big as her own hand.

Not sick then, she determined. His skin was warm to the touch, and damp; sweaty but not clammy. If his sickness was of the heart and not of the body, then there was nothing she could do. Medicinal tea or infusions of this or that were useless when it was the soul that was diseased; the essence of him eaten from the inside out. She was helpless, powerless to give him relief.

She could feel the tightening in her chest, a raw soreness in her throat as her palm heated to his skin, bonding their link. It wasn't pity, not at all. She cared for Eomer and wished if it were pain he felt that she could take it into her own body, draw it from him like she might poison from a wound. Because surely he was poisoned. She wished to free him, wished to help him before it took him, before he died a prisoner of himself.

What _could_ she do for him? How could she protect him from himself, his actions, and his demons? How could she shelter him, keep him safe? How could she save his soul and his heart from rotting and dying in his own chest, or from being eaten away like acid poured on flesh?

What could she do for Eomer that she could not for her own mother?

Nothing.

He must fight his own battle, wage his own war against his demons, and come out victorious…or not at all. But in either case, there was very little she could do except offer him the compassion of her touch, to let him know another cared.

"Oh, E," she sighed, hoping he heard, "You are the most stubborn, blockheaded, difficult, impossible man I have ever known!" And pulled her hand away, the link between them broken.

To do nothing for a man as great and strong as Eomer left her with the most hollow and empty of feelings.

In the morning she found his bed abandoned, his tent deserted, saddle, boots and weapons missing. There was a note, propped up on his desk like a paper tent. 'Girl,' it read black in his chicken scrawl, 'Gone out.'

XXX

He lay for a moment with his eyes shut, his mind and body stirring out of sleep and not wanting to wake. Couldn't he just lay here languoring near the edge of consciousness until tomorrow? Why couldn't he just forget who he was and his responsibilities for the rest of the day?

Dammit, he could not.

After a few minutes of lying there counting sheep, who turned into horses that enjoyed biting herd boys in the shoulder, he made a disagreeable noise, deciding that he wasn't falling back to sleep. With a sluggish flutter and some reluctance, he opened his eyes, mazy and sleep crusted as they adjusted to the dim light of the room and he yawned hugely, his jaw opening with a pop. His had been the slumber of a man after a morning's hard labor, and so it had been. The small room had only one window that he remembered and light shone brightly around the edges of the closed shutters like a square ring of fire.

Groaning and stretching, Eomer wondered what time it was. Time to get up soon, he figured; there was a different kind of work to be done. He took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet intoxicating scents of herbs and flowers and relaxed back on the bed. It had been a long time since he had slept on a mattress filled with billowy soft feathers and he was loathed to leave it, or its occupant.

Goosebumps rose in a wave that stippled his skin, prickling the hairs of his chest and arms. The room was quite cool despite the heat outside and he put a hand out, groping.

Was she still there?

She was.

As a regular thing, Eomer didn't like to pay for his pleasures. Women were to be chased, hunted, and prized in victory. And he thoroughly enjoyed the chase nearly as much as he enjoyed the sex; feeling the thrill of conquest, having the knowledge that he had won, defeating all other potential lovers or suitors and maybe the woman's own inhibitions. Not that he hadn't bedded whores before, but he always found it an awkward business, even in the Mark with their unconstrained views of sexual propriety. Maybe it was boyish embarrassment, maybe feelings of inadequacy, or lack of self control that made him feel odd, uneasy… dirty. There was no sense of accomplishment, no knowing she had wanted him and wanted him willingly. She was simply there for fucking.

Again, he thought, arguing with himself, not that he didn't mind a good all night fucking festival. He could rise to that challenge any day and Eomer laughed at his own wry humor.

But the damnable fact was he wasn't a young man anymore. For a Rohirric man to live to old age he must be very lucky indeed, avoiding various infections and diseases, farm injuries, famine, and war. Add full time soldiering to that list and it meant he was well beyond middle age. All men his age were married. All had children and families of varying degrees. All but him, that was. That meant there was no one his own age to go carousing with, no one with which he could share his adventures. Oh, sure, Eothain and his other friends wouldn't scruple at spending all night in a tavern drinking and playing cards, but when the fun was over, they had warm beds and loving families to return to, leaving Eomer alone to see that his own needs were fulfilled.

Wouldn't it be nice to have someone who was just his, he asked for the ten thousand millionth time? A woman who was his and his alone. To know what she liked and how she liked it? To kiss woman goodbye when he left and not wonder if she would still be there when he came home. To know that there was someone out there who loved him. To have someone who would mourn him in death and remember his life. Someone who he could shelter and defend, this unknown woman and their unborn children…

He didn't want a plaything, he wanted a partner.

His chest rose heavily, and Eomer sighed, scratching himself. Funny things, a man's balls; so firm and drawn up, like unripened fruit, full and sore with his unspilled seed, now flaccid, soft and relieved like his cock. Hell, he was getting old, pondering the functions of his body!

_Well, not going to find you a wife here, old boy_, an inner voice echoed in his ear.

But finding perspective wives and plugging whore's holes wasn't the reason he came this morning. He came for companionship.

The gods damned place smelled like sex when he ducked his head under the lintel and entered the lavishly decorated main receiving room. Wretchedly vile places, whorehouses, he thought disgusted with himself, but men were wretched creatures and he had a burning need. Mornings in such places were usually slow; the goods for sale on display in bedraggled dishabille and available for entertaining, since only a barbarian would consider fornicating in the light of day.

Well, and so he was.

Stereotypes aside, the girls' eyes gleamed greedily at the sight of Eomer, either from lack of sleep or because of his appearance, when he was ushered with business like zeal into the large parlor. A soldier, especially a well dressed one with obvious wealth, would pay in gold coin. Eomer didn't stop to peruse the Madame's riches, instead, he grabbed the first girl he thought promising and bounded up the stairs.

Searching again, his hand brushed against the cool skin of her arm and she stirred with a sigh.

"Are you awake?" He asked huskily, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

"Mmmm," she breathed and sighed again.

"Come here, then."

Eomer gathered her into his arms, pulling her on to him so she laid full length over his body. She was tall and rounded and hippy with dark olive skin and big brown eyes and her large, high breasts pressed flat against his chest. He didn't want her; for right now he only wanted to hold her, and buried his face in the abundance of her coarse brown curly hair, smelling her inviting honeysuckle scent.

The feel of her in his arms was comforting, almost like she belonged to him, and he supposed for a languishing moment, she did.

He had been so lonely, so, so desperately lonely; so in need of another's touch, in reassurance that he himself still lived and might still know love. He needed to know he hadn't yet compressed into a ball of hate and anger, and torment and death.

And in the normal course of events, his loneliness had turned to sadness and his sadness to-

No, he wouldn't think of it. It was gone now. Eomer had found his answer, this time at least. He was still a whole man. It wasn't that he only wanted to bed the whore; he wanted to make love to her, to know that he still could.

She jiggled up and down as he laughed a little bit. He wasn't too far gone into the realm of beasts if his sense of humor was intact; less so if he could make fun of his own faults. From the very first time, Eomer perpetually had trouble…lasting. The first time was without exception a bust, in more ways than one. After that, though…

But this girl…oh, she knew things, did things he didn't know possible, helped him to last for a very long time.

Splaying his fingers, Eomer smoothed his hands over the long expanse of her back, smooth and bowed nicely to her mounded buttocks, feeling something growing between them.

Now it was her turn to giggle. "Mmmm," she said, drawing her knees up and rolling her hips wantonly.

There was something growing between them!

The growth in question was wedged like a sausage surrounded in a fleshy bun. His breath caught in his throat and she did it again, the satin sleekness of her secret curls skimming his belly.

"I don't—I mean, we don't have to. I'm happy just like this…holding you." Yes, the ache was gone, the burning eased, but the want was still there. She would hear no protests from him if she chose to do more.

"Man no leave bed mine with stiff cock," she replied in thickly accented Westron, her voice deep and gravelly, as though rocks were caught in her throat. She reached between their bodies and grasped him for emphasis, "You hairy face like animal, cock like beast. Big!" She smiled appreciatively, and then reached between his legs and cupped his testicles. If this was her idea of dirty talking, she was doing a very poor job of it. "Balls hairy, big like bull. Powerful seeds. Not healthy leave in there. Seeds die, balls shrivel, fall off. Cock no work, wife very angry."

No chance of that happening, he thought hazily. Blood throbbed behind his closed eyes in hard, even red and black waves in time to his heart beat as she slid the tip of him inside the gap between her legs, moistening him in preparation. Everything down there…seemed to be…functioning…just fine.

"I help pull seeds out hard cock. You powerful again, feel better. Balls, cock, healthy. Wife happy. Many sons!"

Eomer couldn't contain his laughter, and his belly quivered underneath her slight weight at her crude, muddled wording and to-the-point, very misguided advice.

"I speak truth!" She exclaimed, appalled at his flippancy, "Laugh now, no laugh when cock broke. Wife thank me. You thank me when done here. Yes, yes?"

The tip of him was poised at her opening and he could feel her heat, questioning, inviting. Oh, yes, he would thank her when he was done, alright. Eomer grabbed hold of her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, and took her in one mighty thrust, sheathing himself completely inside, soft and warm. The brutality of his entry made her gasp in pain, but she was smiling when he pulled her by the neck to take her mouth. He liked knowing the line that divided pain from pleasure was so close, enjoyed using a woman until she was dry and his own cock rubbed raw from friction. It meant he could still feel.

She was a lusty whore and he met the gentle, insistent rocking of her hips with his own thrusts, while exploring her mouth and keeping her rhythm steady with hands that gripped her bottom.

It struck Eomer that she was making love to him, so with her muffled cry of "Uff!" as he crushed her to his chest, he rolled, not breaking their tenuous link. He settled himself more firmly between her thighs and began to move again.

On impulse, he brushed the hair back from her face, wanting to look into her eyes dark as it was. It was ridiculous, he had chosen this girl not the other way around, and it was bothersome that he should bring another woman into this bed, but he could help thinking of something that girl Loti had said.

"The best assassin is the one you never notice. One day you'll see me scrubbing your floors, enjoying looking at my bottom, and the next you'll have me warming your bed. But my job is to kill you. Maybe I'll do it right away, maybe in a few weeks, but you will be dead. Did you know I once killed a man using nothing but a wine glass?"

Eomer's eyebrows went up curiously as he lifted another spoonful of supper to his mouth. "How did you pull that one off?"

"Ground the glass and put it in his food. Doesn't take very much. It's a horrible and slow way to die," she said matter of factly, in a moment of unbragging candor.

He had stopped chewing at that and swallowed convulsively, glancing down at the food she had so kindly offered to bring him that evening, his sky blue eyes going big as tea cups.

"Oh, don't worry!" She bubbled cheerfully, "I'm becoming quite fond of you! I only wanted to kill you two times this week. Luckily for you, today isn't one of those days!"

Loti, that obstinate wench…

A low moan broke from his throat at the thought of her, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his cock grew painfully tight. He began thrusting with a deeper rhythm, the muscles of his back and buttocks tense and strained with self control.

He'd catch hell from her when he returned, and rightfully so, taking off like he did, knowing she would be running around in a worried panic looking for him. The girl was probably having kittens right this minute! She was always attentive, compassionate and concerned for his well being, mixing in the right amount of severity, sternness and suggestive nagging to do what few could ever do—keep him in line. Eomer had no doubt one day Loti would be an excellent wife and mother, he only hoped it would be later rather than sooner. And if that was selfish, to hell with it!

Only recently had she begun telling him about her life as an assassin. She had been not only an emissary of death but also of pleasure. From what he had gleaned from the few halting things he's pried out of her, like liquor out of a drunkard's hand, she had been bedded by dozens of men, not all of whom she'd killed. He hated listening to these stories, but knew he must if he were to understand her better and help her to heal. But it was what she didn't say that troubled him the most. The missing years of her life that must certainly be, if it had not already become, a fatal injury to her heart, pustulant and abscessing. It was the not knowing what sorts of cruelty had been perpetrated against her that churned like white water rapids through his mind. Emotional abuse? Mental mistreatment? Physical submission? Nothing could make him more angry, a man—no, not a man, an animal—taking her by force, against her will; some filthy, dirty bastard's paws groping that lovely body, seeing in his mind another's mouth on hers, another man smothering her body, looming over her, riding her as she—

No, he couldn't think about that… Not right now…

If she would only tell him what had happened, who had done it, he would gladly throw all caution to the wind, and seek revenge on these so called men for all her losses. She was too beautiful, too young to live with death and hate and anger, feelings he knew all too well could kill a man.

Gods, he wished he could help Loti, do for her what he could not for his own mother, his own sister, and the scores of women in the Riddermark left scarred and heartbroken from war.

The room was dark, his vision blurred by the ferocity of his own feral lust, but Eomer thought he could see the glint of dark blue eyes, a flash of skin like bronze dipped in cream, and the spill of chestnut hair, lightened into streaks of amber and cinnamon by the sun.

He could feel her light touch on the back of his bent head, cupping, comforting, caressing down his neck and fingertips trailing across the broad expanse of his back, tracing the thick cords of his spine, laying flat her palms on his shoulder blades as though she could bond their flesh merely through the want of physical contact. All of his fears, his troubles, his hurts were no more then, the bricks inside his chest replaced with utter peace and contentment, a moment of joy devoid of all hopelessness and desolation. The abandonment of his heartache to the feel of those hands on his skin, unburdening his thoughts to her lips and mouth, and purging the poison and misery from who he was, the man he had become, into the body of the woman who now surrendered to his own.

Grazing his lips along the sharp curve of her jaw, he gave into his own passion, the belief in his own fantasy. He knew it was she who kissed him back, lips parting, tongues meeting, in question, in answer, yielding to his demand, seeking and tasting of sweet red wine, the tip of her tongue soft, warm, and wet.

A hand, fingers long and delicate, cupped his face then slid slowly to his throat, her thumb resting on the pulse that surged there unbridled and rabid, feeling the beating force of his life. The wave of peace overtook him again, washing through his body with tingles and prickles that made his body shudder and a sensation like goose bumps that tickled his belly and balls.

Eomer missed these touches, these simple acts of affection, not necessarily of a lover but of a woman who loved him solely for who he was. Once it had been the caressing of a heartsick boy's blonde head by his mother's large, smooth hand; a mother dead these many years. More recently, the insistent poking of a sister so stubborn, so bloody intransigent, she could rouse him out of the deepest bout of melancholy with nothing but single minded determination, persistence, and a tongue as sharp as barbed wire; a sister who he had finally let go.

Now, though, he was truly alone. There was no one in all of the world to love him only for himself. Oh, sure, Eowyn still did, he could argue, but that was the sisterly, familial kind. She had no choice, damn it, and he knew no matter what her pig headed older brother said or did, she always would. Unfortunately, it wasn't the kind of love he needed, the kind of close intimacy he might receive from a lover or a wife.

His heart was dying. It had been for some time, adding to his despair; breaking off into pieces, one at a time like splinters of rock chipped from a boulder. Soon only a ghostly outline of the man he had been would be left to wander amongst the living, his heart hardened, his body mangled, his soul doomed, his essence gone. His life over.

Slowly, so unwilling to break the spell cast over his imagination, he lifted eyelids heavy and intoxicated with unslaked, red blooded yearning, hoping to see long, feathery lashes flicking like the wings of a butterfly, and slightly slanted dark blue eyes as wide as almonds gazing back with enraptured abandon.

He pushed up a little, confused, feeling like a fish swirled too fast in a glass bowl and left out in the fog.

It was so dark, in the room, in his head. Was she there watching him, reading his eyes, his face, searching his expression for his thoughts and feelings until he could meet her own eyes in the humid, velvet darkness? Was it her Eomer found his pleasure in? The flat golden belly and narrow waist, pelvis and hips fitted tightly to his own, and breasts, small and round, the brownish nipples puckered to points. His hand cupped one breast carefully, swirling a thumb around the pliant, aroused nipple. It was warm to the touch, and full, swollen, and his hand closed over it, squeezing, so life like in its softness and movement for a woman who was a dream.

She must have felt his uncertainty, his hesitation and doubt, instinctually drawing him down so his warmth covered her, his heart touching hers, beating together in time.

"Ghaw, girl," he whispered to this naked, erotic figment of his imagination, his throat tight, his belly twisted in knots as he nuzzled and nibbled her ear, "You're so beautiful."

Eomer pushed inside, still rigid and achingly aroused, and loving the way her moan mixed with his, how she eagerly she lifted her hips to accept him fully.

"Oh, gods," he sighed, ramming against the soft flesh of inner thigh, her legs wrapped tightly about his hips. It was deafening, the blood coursing, pulsing, singing in his ears He dropped his head, pressing his cheek next to hers in hope of relieving at least some of the pressure surging through his skull like the pounding of a very large, very loud drum. In the excruciating roar, in the heavy, murkiness that swirled like clouds of smoke in his head, he let go his grip on tangible truths and realities, and began imagining it was she who laid spread beneath him, and he opening her, allowed ownership of her body.

XXX

"Oh, gods," Eomer murmured a little while later, rolling over onto his back. Reality was beginning to set in again.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at the whore, half laughing in embarrassment, and having trouble remembering her name. His chest heaved, rising and falling rapidly as he tried catching his breath. "I'm sorry," he huffed, laying an apologetic hand on the crest of her thigh. "Did I—Are you hurt? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

Alima, that was her name!

A soft rustling came from her pillow as she shook her head.

Eomer rested on his back for a few minutes, silently staring up at the ceiling of the dimly lit room, the bed sheets clinging damply to his hot body, for once not thinking. After a while of quiet mindlessness, he sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. His mouth and throat were as dry as a bag of wool and tacky with thirst. He could smell himself, too, the ripe pungency of his own sweat and the fragrant film of her slickness still on his cock.

With a tremendous effort and equally as much reluctance, Eomer stood, jelly kneed. Her room was rather small and, with his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, crossed to the chest of drawers in only two steps. The tinderbox was a different story and he ferreted inside it before finding the flint and lighting the room's single candle. He poured each of them a cup of wine from the decanter, handing on to Alima. The smell of fresh fruit made his nose twitch, his belly felt like an empty pit he hadn't eaten in so long, and his fingers plucked a peach out of the bowl next to the wine before making his way to the window.

He cracked open the shutters, letting in a bright yellow slice of light, and stood for a long moment looking down on the street below, the cup of wine forgotten in his hand. The street was alive below with the sounds of city life and commerce; amicable greeting of friends, the creaking of wagon wheels, the repetitive swish, swish, swish of a broom on a door step, children crying, dogs barking, all mixed with the yeasty smell of bread baking and the faint tang of fresh horse shit. Ghaw, he hated cities!

Eomer shifted irritably against the window jam.

It was a terrible thing to make love to one woman while thinking of another, not to mention frustrating because there wasn't a damn thing in good conscience he could do about it! He was her king, Loti his subject. And, of all things, his secretary! He had given her the protection of his body, to seduce and bed her just because he could would be a devastating violation of her trust. His honor and her trust in his honor were the only ties binding them together. One slip of the knot and they would be irrevocably severed, he without her invaluable help and she without the one person in the world who actually cared about her welfare.

If she were to make advances towards him, though…

_Ghaw, man, you'd find an excuse to sleep with your best friend's wife_, he thought angrily.

His thumb was idly tracing the cleft on the peach's surface. That's how she had felt just now, split and ripe under his fingers, soft and juicy inside, sweet on his tongue. But her flesh, her nectar, was forbidden for him to taste, like fruit stolen from an orchard, denied to him in anything other than a fantasy.

Eomer raised the cup, taking a healthy swallow to rinse the taste of uneaten peach from his mouth and the salt of her skin from his lips.

He sighed, this time a sound of deepest longing. Who would want him, a man who seemingly could not settle down? Certainly not Loti, a girl who deserved the safety of a home and the security of a stable man.

Would his love ever be enough? This was a question he still had no answers to nearly twenty years after he first asked it. For his mother, his love had certainly not been enough. For his sister, just enough. Did love require something more? Was that 'something more' something he was lacking?

Eomer snorted, gazing out at the acres of unfamiliar buildings and city streets, and the miles and miles of endless crystalline sky, supposedly so much like the vast expanse of the sea he had never seen. He may as well ask why his cock stood up in the morning!

He had no clue.

As for Loti…

Maybe he just wanted a wild tumble in a tangle of limbs and half discarded clothing and slippery, sweaty skin under a heaving blanket, possibly involving a convenient and secluded pile of hay! It was natural for a man to want a woman as beautiful as she-what man could resist?-but he could not allow himself to indulge in that temptation. He _must_ resist or risk losing too much of the normal life he so desperately wanted her to live. The girl needed him and he… well, there was a part of him that needed her, too.

Until the time came, if it ever did come, he could only allow himself to indulge in the idea and the fantasy.

His thoughts had turned from the subject, not wanting to continue dwelling on the impossible when an odd tingling danced up his spine. Unable to bear the prickles, he closed the shutters with a clatter and turned his back to the window, finding the whore, Alima, frowning ponderously at him in the glow from the candle.

"You women's problems," she declared hitching the bed clothes up higher around her bare chest.

Eomer gave her a sideways grin and glanced down, cupping himself. "Really? I didn't know that men could have problems like that!"

She made a censorious click of her tongue. "No, no, not what I saying. You problem with wife."

Leaving the sunshine of the window behind, he returned to the wine decanter to refill his cup, asking rudely, "Why would you say that?"

Alima was blunt, not concerned about tact or indelicacy. "You in me, use my body. Head, not here. Eyes," her fingers came up to her own eyes, making jiggling motions, "see not me. See other woman. You want slow, gentle, to love me long time. Then you fast, hard. Hurt me. You try make her feel you. Reach her inside me."

Eomer suddenly felt uncomfortably hot in the small, cool room. Had it been that obvious? He leaned back against the chest of draws, light from the single candle bathing him in a pool of flickering orange, his skin hot as the tiny flame.

He sniffed, turning his head from her all seeing brown eyes, sneering slightly in indignation at her affronting appraisal. Who the hell was she? "What makes you think you know so much about it?" The question and his tone were both challenging.

Her own voice was very calm but certain. "You think I not know. I know men. I know you."

She shifted in the bed, sitting up higher against the headboard and she shrugged as though knowing Eomer did not want to hear the rest. "Men come, want finding comfort. Sometimes here," she pointed between her outstretched legs, hidden beneath the quilts, "sometimes here," pointing to the side of her head, "sometimes here," she finished, pointing the long, slender finger to her heart. "What man want, I have. Not problem What man need… Is bigger problem. This," she gestured with a nod at her crotch, "not always fix problem. You…" Her voice trailed off and her eyes swept his naked candlelit body from head to toe, lingering speculatively on his male parts with a laugh, "no problem finding woman for warming bed. This," again nodding between her legs, "not fixing problem… You problem here and here." She touched both head and heart, diagnosing his emotional state of affairs with the same sort of grim matter of factness a healer might give bad news to a patient

He didn't answer, what was there to say, although he did stiffen and bristle at her explanation.

"She being the one fixing you. You and women, lots come, lots go. She still in here," Alima said, finger to her head, "She not go."

The whore turned back the bed linens and patted the spot on the mattress he had just vacated. "You come, sit, talk. We fix, or be heart that shrivel, die, not balls."

He felt terribly exposed, but oddly enough, not physically, even as he stood naked as the day he was born. She had spoken openly, honestly, without reservation or hesitation and, damn it, he knew it was true! His body was tall and strong and powerful but only a shell, a covering for a man whose spirit was injured at best, broken at worst. It was oddly disconcerting to have his soul laid open and examined by a woman, a whore, who knew nothing of him or he of her; this unknown woman who he had just finished making love to.

But she knew men, had probably see this same problem hundreds of times in the past; men lonely and desperate, in need of female companionship. And isn't this why he had come here, searching for comfort, looking to cast aside his despair, to feel the healing touch of a woman on him, around him?

Eomer set down the cup softly and came to the edge of the bed stead, slowly lifting the covers and climbing back in next to her. It was warm in the bed, her skin was warm, still flushed and heated from his uninhibited use of her body. She pulled his head to her shoulder, stroking the long strands of his blonde hair.

"When we done talking, you love her again properly. Call out her name."

Sometime later, Eomer sat on the edge of the bed again, the strength of his climax still vibrating, like rolls of thunder rumbling in his veins, in the tips of fingers and toes, and in the thick muscles of thighs, buttock, back and belly. He bent, picking up his britches and shirt, stiff with dried sweat, and began to dress.

When at last he was finally ready to take his leave, Alima was sitting up straight, the linens from the bed wrapped snuggly around her, waiting to be paid. His saddlebags were slung over his shoulder and Eomer put a hand inside, coming out with a small purse of coins; a year's worth of wages for someone like Alima. After a short lived argument with himself about the virtues of frugality and man's responsibility to man and his own role within that grand scheme, it was something Eothain's father had told them as young men. His decision made, he crawled back across the bed, taking her face in his hand. He kissed her softly, reverently on the mouth and dropped the purse in her lap.

A whore knows the price of her own body, but not the value of her own life.

"Do something different, eh?"

XXX

Loti woke in a state of grogginess, unable to place herself, her mind mixed and swirled, a jumble of fragmented images, dark and incoherent, and her heart beating in a heavily contented rhythm. She lifted her head from her arms folded over the disorganized papers on her desk, a pleasant burning numbness in fingers and toes, arms and legs, a lingering quivering in the muscles of her belly.

It was a dream, she told herself, feeling weak and alive and deliriously spent. A dream, nothing more… Yet, she still felt the caress of his hands on her fevered, glowing skin, the taste of his kisses, the cold wetness of his tongue on her breasts and nipples.

She had known him, this man from the dream, and had no fear of his touch or his intent. A competent lover, he had taken her gently and with tenderness, but also with a needful urgency. In the shadowed cool black of the dream he spoke, his voice like something from her past, long dead, familiar, yet unable to be placed. There was wetness between her legs, a faint hot throbbing of deepest arousal and an ache of bone deep wanting. Closing her eyes, Loti cupped her breasts, nipples excited and tingling under the fabric of her shirt, recalling in memory the touch of his fingers, skilled and slippery, and the stroke of his cock, opening her to the thrill of his ownership and possession.

Who had he been, this man in the dark who left the echo of her name in her ear, the echo of his body in her flesh.

XXX

A movement at the tent's doorway startled Loti, and she glanced up from the work on her desk. A head was poking in, smiling. A big, blonde, stupid head with an idiotic, pompous crooked grin!

"Thank the Valar!" Loti cried, throwing down her quill and slumping back in her seat as the rest of Eomer's impossibly tall body appeared inside, "You're alright!"

"Of course I am," he said still smiling and shucking off his gloves. "Did you think I wouldn't be?"

Immediately, he began to disarm and disrobe, unlooping sword belt, and unbuckling the straps of gauntlets and chest plate, plopping them all haphazardly on the bed in complete disregard of his usual fastidious nature.

"Eomer," Loti demanded without preamble, "where in bluest Valinor have you been?"

"I left you a note."

"Oh, yes! Yes, you certainly did and a very specific note it was, too! Girl, gone out," she quoted, jerking her head in a mechanical sort of way on the two words, "Gone out? Gone out! Gone where?"

"Out," Eomer taunted.

Off came the hefty chain mail shirt with a slink and the steel apron that protected his thighs, adding to the mess on the bed. His smiled curved in a flash of white teeth over his shoulder as he propped first one foot and then the other on the bed rail removing his leather greaves, but didn't satisfy her with any further clarification.

It occurred to Loti that he was acting peculiar, so fixing him with a fishy eye, she asked, "Why are you smiling? You never smile." Smiling wasn't really an accurate description of what was plastered on his face. He was beaming and looking foolish and sophomoric, like he had just played a very funny joke on someone.

Standing on one foot, he wiggled out of a boot. "I'm in a good mood. I thought you'd like that." He dropped his boots on the ground and pulled off his shirt, grimy with dirt and wet with sweat.

"You thought wrong. Where have you been?"

Instead of answering, Eomer put the shirt to his nose, sniffed, grimaced at the smell, and rolled it into a ball. "Here," he threw it, catching her in the face with a soppy splat, "wash this."

"Uhhhg!" Loti exclaimed in revolted horror, yanking the damp thing off her face.

Now it was her turn to have a sniff. Carefully, she brought it to her nose and inhaled cautiously. It had the usual male smells of stale, salty sweat, his own natural musky scent, the earthy smells of steel and leather, but, also, a faint—she sniffed again—just a hint of something like—

She balled the shirt up in her fist and hurled it back at him. It missed its mark and it landed in a sodden heap on the ground instead.

"Eomer! Where have you been?"

The sun was past its zenith and illuminated the tent's canvas in a soft yellow tan glow; the wide width of Eomer's shoulders outlined dark against it. A hot sea wind blew in, rustling the canvas fabric and lifting the hair from the back of his neck. His hair had grown long since their first meeting in the early spring in the streets of Aldburg and now hung to the middle of his shoulder blades; its waviness wild and rippling in the humidity. He was sweating, too, tiny beads and droplets of sweat shown over the taught sinewy muscles of back and skin.

"Eomer," she said in even tones of extreme impatience, but the man was too busy dodging the unlit chandelier that hung from the tent poles above.

"Eomer!"

"Whaaat?" He droned in mock annoyance.

Striding to his desk in full cocky swagger like a rooster in full plumed strut through a brood of appreciative hens, Eomer dropped into his chair, and kicked his bare feet up on the corner of the desk. He had very big feet…

"Where. Have. You. Been?"

He didn't answer the question, but raised one heavy blonde eyebrow in suggestion. His clear blue eyes were bright and glossy, and full of unspoken mischievousness.

"Oh," Loti said in belated realization, then, "Oh," a little more self consciously, returning her attention to the latest stack of requisitions she was composing, and gave her best impression of a Rohirric, "Mmmhmm."

Hogsheads of ale and casks of salt never seemed so interesting.

Linking his fingers behind his head, Eomer rocked back in the chair. "You were worried about me." This was more or less a statement rather than a question.

She dipped her quill in the inkwell and resumed her writing, saying in a low, emotionless voice, "It is none of my business who you choose to sleep with."'

"That's not what I asked."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell the truth. Were you worried about me?" The smile in his voice was evident.

Loti had the strangest sense he was teasing her and continued on, intent in her writing, not raising her eyes from the page. "Of course I was worried. Shouldn't I be?" She said in the same flat, dry tone as before. "That was reckless, going off on your own, not telling anyone where you were going. And childish. You should have waited for someone to go with you. What if you had been attacked in the street?" Pausing for several seconds in her castigations, she shot Eomer a quick sideways look. He wasn't smiling now but still wore a wry expression, as though he enjoyed her stern berating. Did he like it when she nagged him? "How will I ever manage to become a maid in your household if you are dead? Sometimes you're so stubborn."

"And difficult, and blockheaded, and impossible?"

So, he hadn't been asleep the day before! "Yes, those things too."

Yawning like a cat soaking up the sun, he had either bored of the topic or just wanted to change the subject. "What have you been up to today?"

Loti replied crossly, "Working," and reached for the pen knife, chunking off a portion of the quill's shaft, sharpening it to a fresh point with the same care she might in sharpening a knife.

"Well," he huffed conversationally, "that's what I pay you for."

"You do not pay me anything," she countered with a tartness as smooth as lemon cream.

Eomer narrowed his eyes into clear blue slits of immaturity and perused her person critically. "Hmm… you're very docile today, aren't you? That boy Red serve you properly while I was gone?"

Her head snapped around at the suggestion of impropriety. Then she saw his face; he was teasing her! Or, at least, she thought so. Turning back to her requisitions list, she said mildly, "You're an ass."

He gave a snorting chuckle, and wiggled in his chair, making it creak and squeak while trying to scratch his back.

"I'm glad to see you are feeling better," Loti said in a soft voice and an honest tone during the silence that followed.

There was no answer to this so Loti continued on with, "You could have told me about it, you know, what was bothering you. Did you think no one will understand?"

There was no answer to this either.

Eomer groaned instead and, rocking the chair back on two legs, stretched and cracked his back with several dull pops, then rubbed a hand over his stomach. "Ooh…aaahh!" He grunted and sighed. "I worked up quite the appetite this morning. Woman, go get me something to eat so I can get some work done."

Loti felt her skin crawl in agitation. Now he wanted to work! With a toss of her head, she fixed her mouth into a tight smile of greatest insincerity, and wrapped her hand threateningly about the ink pot.

Catching sight of the convulsively closing hand, Eomer moved with the swiftest of decisions, dropping his feet to the ground and hopping up out of the chair. "Maybe I'll go wash up first, eh?"

Her phony smile followed him right out the door.

"Oh!" He piped up, leaning back in, and using that voice that could make even the biggest mistake seem like no big deal, "Before you go burning my clothes in a fit of jealous rage, check the, ah—" he drew a u-shape over his chest, finishing the sentence with the quintessential Rohirric combination of ambiguity. "Mmmhmm. Eh?"

With a glimmer in his eye and a wink, he ducked out and padded off. Some seconds later, she heard his deep gravelly voice barking out unfriendly commands, apparently seeing something he didn't like, and the scrambling sounds of harness and tack.

That man was a paradox, wrapped in an oxymoron, surrounded by contradictions all rolled up in a ball of enigmas!

Heaving herself out from behind her own desk, Loti walked to the bed where Eomer had dropped his things, looking for the leather bag he so artfully described using sign language. It was nothing more than a pouch hung on a string so it could be worn under his shirt, this being the best way to thwart any nimble fingered pick pockets. Putting her hand in, she pulled out a tiny carved wooden idol of what could only be described as a woman, hugely obese with sagging breasts and fat thighs; its surface polished to a smooth dark patina in spots, possibly from being rubbed by a finger. She shrugged, digging deeper, pulling out a few coins, a folded letter from his sister and—

Disbelieving, Loti pulled out a three foot length of purple ribbon. That dirty bastard had bought her a gift.


	12. Chapter 12 A Mid Summer Night's Debauch

A/N:

Hello again! Thanks for taking the time to read and as always please feel free to send me a review and let me know what you thought. Anything is helpful. I'm super excited about the next two chapters! A lot is going to happen and the story is really going to pick up from here!

* * *

"What are you doing?" Loti asked curiously.

The camp was quite loud and boisterous tonight, alive and crackling with excitement and her question was met with an enthusiastic chorus of "Hey!" from the men sitting around the makeshift table as they turned to her in greeting.

She stood on tip toe from several feet away, craning her neck to see what was going on, waiting for an invitation before approaching.

"Playing cards," said Eothain, a look of deepest contemplation on his sunburned face; its ruddy color illuminated by several torches staked into the ground nearby, the flames rising up in wisps of orange and fiery red.

This appeared to be true. Each man had a pile of coins in front of him, tossing a few now and again onto separate centralized pile in the middle of the rough hewn board currently reincarnated as a tabletop. And from the looks of it, Eoin's pile was the healthiest by far.

"What've you got?" So said the voice of authority. Lifting his head from the game momentarily, Eomer shot her a narrow blue eye.

Taking this for invitation, she stepped forward, peering over the shoulders of both Wolf and Eothian.

"Food," Loti answered, clutching two wooden skewers in each hand.

Aric, always counted on to state the obvious observed, "Looks like meat on a stick to me."

Although his tone was calm enough, Eomer's face hardened. "Where did those come from? You were told not to leave camp."

"I didn't!" Loti protested, hurt at the accusation. She had learned long ago not to question Eomer's orders. He placed few restrictions on her, but this was one rule about which he was unyieldingly adamant. "One of the guards at the gate bought them for me. I didn't get his name, but he was tall and blonde."

"Well, that'll narrow it down," Eothian snorted, tossing a few coins into the center of the table with a meaty metallic _chink_.

"Oh, bugger off, asshat, she's a right fine lass," Eoin began belligerently, this comment made mostly towards Aric who was trying to steal a peak at his cards. Sheltering them, he gave the younger man a dirty look. "She's not done anything wrong. Go and sit yourself down there. Bram's not coming back and we can always use a pretty face around here." Gesturing with his chin at a vacant gap between Eothian and Eomer, the former righted a milking stool, slapping the seat for her to officially partake in an evening's event they considered fun.

She meant to say no, that she was just passing by, but had a sudden change of heart. It was a perfect summer night, pleasantly mild, little or no wind and the sky above clear a crystal, charcoal black and twinkling with pinpricks of soft white light. And the air… It was slightly thick but not stifling, smelling dreamily of wood smoke, lye soap, the fetid green mustiness of decaying river plants and a faint underlying note of…was that goat or sheep? So, yes, she would stay, and, in any case, she didn't enjoy eating without company. She had done that far too often in the past. Today of all days Loti did not want to be alone.

Eomer glanced up from the cards in his hand. His face was placid, but it was his eyes that always told the real story. This time she thought the story began, 'please go away now and don't come back.' "She has work to do," he said briskly, and threw the cards face down on the table in disgust.

Since recovering from his bout of melancholy a fortnight ago, Eomer's sometimes harsh as sandpaper temperament and dour taciturnity had returned in good earnest. And Loti was very glad to see it, even if it did mean enduring the full force of his orneriness.

"No. I don't," Loti returned firmly, making her way lazily around Eothain and settling neatly on to the stool. "Don't you have work to do, too, or is your main job now to keep your men entertained?"

Picking up his newly dealt cards, he tossed another two coins to the center of the table, muttering, "Hmphf. While you sat your ass in the shade, I shoed four horses, fixed my saddle and the east paddock fence, and started digging the new privy pit."

"Do you want a pat on the head?" She bit down on a square of vegetable, a bell pepper, grilled and fragrant, and slid it off the stick in order to stop the giggles that bubbled in her throat over his obvious annoyance.

"No." Then he turned his head, nostrils flaring suspiciously, and gave her supper the speculative once over. "I'll have one of these, though. What is it?"

Dexterously rearranging the skewers into her right hand, she held the other out in her left for his inspection, strung with fibrous yellow chunks. "Pineapple," offered Loti, holding the stick higher and closer, making him go a bit cross eyed.

"Pine. Apple?" He repeated, brows rising in doubtful interest.

Eyes dark over the edge of his card, Wolf asked cautiously, "Your apples… They grow on pine trees down here, is it?"

"No…" Loti thought about this for a moment, considering how to explain something they'd never seen. "I think they're called pineapples because they sort of look like pine cones, all spiky and prickly on the outside, and they grow in the tops of trees."

Eomer, never afraid of a challenge and always eager to try something new, leaned in, opened his mouth, bit down, and slid the fruit off the stick. After forgoing some of his initial qualms, which were few and didn't last long, he would eat just about anything. The other three men watched in absorption, perhaps wondering if he would tumble backwards off his seat dead and poisoned. A few bites in, his eyes widened, either from unexpected delight or shock she couldn't tell, and he snatched the skewer out of her hand, swatting an inattentive Aric in the chest, who jerked up, a little stunned. Loti called out a distressed "Hey!" but Aric was already accepting the proffered fruit stick and snagging his own hunk before passing it on to Eoin.

"I bought those!" She complained in a high voice.

His head swiveled back to regard her critically. "Using whose money?" The obvious answer was 'Yours,' but instead she made her own version of a Rohirric noise, which came out like a growl of dissatisfaction, annoyed at having to admit this small fact. Eomer heard this and the corners of mouth and eye met in a kind of grimacing frown. "I'll buy you another."

Eoin, chewing industriously and sucking pineapple juice off his fingertips, noted, "I thought it might taste like apples but it doesn't. Might have to find one of those to take back to the wife and the babes, eh?"

"I've heard of these things called…" Eothain hesitated, angling his head toward Loti for conformation, "Af- ro- dee- zee- aks." She bobbed her head and he went on. "Passion? Fruits. Well, I've heard you eat one of those and it'll make your cock stand up all night long and the women can't resist you when they set eyes on you!"

"Aptly named, then," muttered Eoin under his breath.

Giggling, she said, "Don't believe everything you hear."

"Even if it did keep your boy up like you said," Eomer added, "A lot of good it would do here. You going to start taking up with whores now, cuckold?"

"I suppose, that's true enough. I'd have a pair of very sore balls and," he paused for dramatic effect, "the wife would know if I were sticking it somewhere it didn't belong. Remember that once at the tavern? Oh, ho ho! Youch! She threatened to cut my parts off, smoke them next to the deer carcass and nail them up over the door as a reminder!"

"I tried one of those grapefruits," Aric put in, glaring from the cards in his hand to the pot of money on the table, "Can you believe it, didn't taste like grapes at all! Ghaw, was it so sour, it gave me sores in my mouth!"

"Better sores in your mouth than sores on your cock, my old man used to say," Eothain declared in his usual uncouth manner, and laughed at this piece of very logical advice, handing Loti the stick, three hunks of fruit still solidly attached. Taking hold of the stick, she gave it a dispassionate frown and shrugged.

"What else did your father say?" She asked.

He thought about that one for a few moments, pushing his lips in and out with deliberation. "Never wring a chicken's neck."

A line formed between her dark brows as she squinched them together, confused, while the others rumbled with laughter. "What? Never—but …isn't that how you kill a chicken?"

"Exactly," Eomer smirked, making an obvious effort keep his face under control.

Wolf agreed with this sentiment, eagerly scooping his winnings from the pot into his own pile. "Good piece of advice, that."

Loti looked from man to man still befaffled and feeling quite the fool. Chicken neck?

Eothian caught the perplexed cock of her head and reached around behind her to roughly manhandle his best friend's shoulder. "Go on, Rooster! Show her how to choke a chicken properly so she don't kill it!"

A chorus of crescendo-ing hoots dissolved into raunchy laughter when Wolf, smiling broadly, teeth baring through the thicket of his gray beard like the animal he so closely resembled, said, "Ah, with a hand like his, that chicken's long dead."

Loti enjoyed ribbing Eomer, but this joke and its allusions had zoomed over her head. Mouth gaping, she turned, puzzled, to Eomer for explanation. Something between crossness and amusement flickered across his normally impassive face, and, well, maybe it was just the reflection of torch light…a glimmer of naughtiness in those ink black eyes?

Just when she thought he would be of no help in clarifying the matter, Eomer reached out unexpectedly, grabbing her about the wrist, and pressed her hand—a bit too hard, and a bit too long—between his legs. She tensed in astonishment, the muscles of her arm going rigid as the bone beneath and she tried to jerk away, but his grip was too strong, his hand very large and his skin very coarse. The doeskin of his britches was soft, as were the rounded shapes of his nether parts underneath, flaccid and smooth. Not stiff, she realized, as he rocked her hand, adjusting the placement so she was compelled to feel him, all of him. No—he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of feeling him in any state of arousal. This was a demonstration of his self control. He was cupping her small hand around him gently, but nonetheless firmly, the size and weight of his ballocks heavy and warm from the heat of his body. Horse Lords indeed!

Would he like it if she were to—

That thought appalled and shocked even her own sense of propriety! Of course he would! He was a man _and_ a barbarian, the next thing to an animal!

Her eyes, full of wariness and apprehension, snapped back to his, creased in the corners with suppressed delight, and his body radiating a fierce male flirtatious energy.

"Chicken neck," he said and flung her hand away.

Another uproar of yowling and hooting came from around the table, this time in the form of clucking, crowing, bock-bock-ing, and cock-a-doodle-do-ing. Eomer continued to give her that idiotic half grin of his, savoring his victory, and dealt out another hand of cards, slapping the undealt stack down with a decisive _thud_ on the tabletop.

"Ah! The Rooster lives! Ready to foist himself on another unsuspecting hen when she's not looking! To live such a charmed life!" Eoin sighed on this last bit, shaking his head reprovingly.

"Like you should talk!" The graying Wolf cajoled his friend, screwing up his face and whipping his card to the table. "I'd bet your wife would have a different opinion on that, or did all those babies just appear in the night on your doorstep?"

"Why—" Loti interrupted, eyes casting all around, from Aric to Eothain before settling on Eomer, "Why do they call you Rooster?"

They were laughing at her again.

Her attention was drawn back to Eothain, making an exaggerated growing motion from his crotch that cleared her question right up. "Because it's sooo big! An almightier cock stand I've never seen!"

"You've…seen it?" She asked, gulping back her giggles with a hand over her mouth.

"Oh, yes and one too many times for my liking!" He put a hand over his own crotch, claiming, "Makes a man feel right inadequate, too. Don't go getting too close to it, either. I hear it spits!" He ended in mock confidentiality.

More laughter.

"Well, now, maybe it's not so big as you remember. The lassie must not have thought it all that special. Maybe it's a wooden cock! Whittled away at by all his women to keep as a souvenir until nothing but a bitty stub is left," Wolf hypothesized.

The man at the center of it all was neither insulted nor troubled at the disparaging of his sexual abilities. "Even my stump of a cock stand would be bigger than yours, old man."

"Can I call you Rooster?" Loti asked, her voice tight, positively fizzing.

She had often had those light blue eyes turned on her, sometimes in icy hot anger, sometimes in a lightning quick flash of unguarded lust. Did he know the power that pale gaze and cockeyed smile had to turn a woman's insides into a warm, liquid puddle? Because he was doing it right now, melting Loti like an icicle in boiling water!

"Will you let me tread you like a hen?" The question was asked whimsically but she couldn't mistake the hint of warning in it too. A warning that said he usually got what he wanted.

Congealing her gelatinous insides, she scoffed, "Ack, no!" hoping it had the proper derogatory zeal.

"Then, no," he said, leaning towards her, his rich, throaty voice bringing, with some annoyance, a flip flopping of her belly, "you may not." And he picked up his cards.

That being the final word on the subject, Loti, nose in the air, returned to what remained of her food with a haughty, "Hmphf", munching and watching the game desultorily, letting her mind hop from thought to thought without connection.

After a while, she found herself staring up at the stars again in contemplation, their light and purpose a mystery. Perhaps, they were the light of the dead, hung from the heavens in silent, perpetual remembrance. Belief in this idea had always given her comfort. Belief that those she had loved and lost were watching over her, participating somehow in the only way they could. This was a thought she clung to fervently, a need to know she was truly not alone, that she had not yet been abandoned.

She found constellations, strewn across the sky like grains of sand on a beach and, Valar!, just as many, too; the stars of Gondor, a gracefully arching gateway into the night, the bear killer, the bull, the flying horse, it's hooves spraying rooster tails of diamond white light.

Would the stars be different in the north, in Rohan? Would she be able to find the stars she thought to be her mother and brother when she finally went to live there? Would they be able to find her, so far from home?

"Lass! Lassie!"

"Huh?" Loti said, disturbed abruptly out of her introspective ruminations.

"Do you want to learn?" Eothain wondered, giving Loti a glance that told her he was appraising her sobriety, or, perhaps, checking his own, and took a swig out of something out of a bottle, its contents sloshing nosily.

"Learn?" Her mind was still trying to catch up. "Oh, ah, how to play cards? Alright, I guess."

Quickly, Eomer turned a scowl on his friend. "She can't play. She doesn't have any money."

"Ah!" Eothain said with a sound like ripping fabric, and waving a hand like this was an inconsequential detail. "You can stake her."

Loti, frankly, didn't care whether she learned to play or not, but thought it was a nice gesture on Eothain's part. Unlike these men, gambling wasn't in her nature. Risk, the sizzling sensation in the tips of fingers and toes that came on with the rush of blood, the uncertainty of not having a plan and not knowing the outcome made her anxious, uneasy and sick to her stomach.

Contrariwise, it was exactly these things that the man sitting on her left thrived upon. It was what compelled him to stand on battle fields where he was greatly outnumbered and overpowered. It was what made him a great soldier and an even greater General. It was that heedless, thoughtless unpredictability that men, and elves, and evil alike all found so fearsome and terrorizing.

So why was he such a piss poor card player?

After a second or two of twisting his lips, he sighed heavily through his nose, the decision made. "Fine. But it's my money. I'll teach her."

Across the table, Eoin perked up, calling out, "Sounds like a good idea to me! I like taking your money. It don't matter to me if it's from you or her!"

"What are we playing?" She asked, happily resigned to be included as Eomer dragged her and her stool closer to him for instruction.

Brag, as the game turned out to be, was a gambling game popular amongst the Rohirrim, played in taverns, homes, and the Great Halls of their lord's respective longhouses, and relatively simple to learn. Before dealing the cards, each man would make his initial stake into the pot. The dealer then deals out three cards to each player and betting starts again. Players can choose to fold or continue playing, matching any increase in current bet until only one player remains. If two players remain, one player may choose to "see" the other player's hand. "Seeing" costs twice the amount of the previous players bet and forces that player to expose their cards first.

"If your cards are better, you have to show them to win the pot. If your cards are equal or worse, you don't have to show your cards and you lose," Eomer explained hastily. "And never show your cards to anybody."

"Oh," Loti said stupidly, and he went on to explain the ranking of hands.

Unlike trick taking card games, Brag was rudimentary in its simplicity. There is no order of suits so it would be possible for two hands to be equal in rank. In the case of two equal hands, the player who paid to "see" his opponent's cards would lose the hand. The ranking order of a winning hand of Brag are Prial, running flush, run, flush, pair, and high card.

"Any questions?"

Loti shook her head side to side.

"Good. You'll watch me for a while," and he scooped another hand of cards from the scarred table, fanning them so they could both see.

The cards Eomer held were well used, tattered in the corners and along the edges, and discolored from years or possibly even decades of use. They were simple but elegantly embellished, the symbols of the four suits hand inked on heavy, rough made paper; an ostentatious luxury for any Rohirric farmer turned soldier, even a lord. Paper, especially the card stock from which this deck had been contrived, was as rare and valuable as silk or spices, and in the Riddermark, just as difficult to find.

How many times, she wondered, had they done exactly this with that deck of cards? Laughed, joked, told stories, become reacquainted after absences, met new friends, mourned the loss of old ones, relaxed on a cold winter's night in a tavern by a cozy hearth, or played near his own hearth in the hall they called Meduseld.

She sat close to Eomer, leaning in so his cards wouldn't be exposed to anyone else. Other than being his usual gruff self, he seemed light hearted and easy going this evening, relieved of the burdens of responsibility, free to be himself, just another soldier of Rohan.

Loti subsided, complacently listening the groups idle chit chat, Eomer's occasional explanations of Brag's strategy, rules or etiquette, and Eoin decrying his king's card playing ability, whilst delighting in taking the man's money.

The frogs were singing in the shallows of the river bank, croaking out there tuneless melodies in competition with the cicadas monotone, persistent hums and the creaking and chirping of crickets, all blending into the symphony of a summery southern night. Those sounds, their discordant, high pitched whines, mingled in stark contrast with the soothing Rohirrim voices around her, low and resonant and masculine.

A nudge in the arm brought her attention around to Eothian, wiggling a bottle of some unspecified alcoholic beverage; his cheeks slightly bulging with a mouthful before he swallowed. "Here, try it."

Loti held up her hands, declining. It could be anything from gin to pear wine, all of which tasted very much the same… like rancid turpentine. "Oh, no. It's al—"

"Go on," he interrupted, insistent, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, "It won't hurt. You haven't had a drink all night. Relax! Enjoy the night a little!"

Three bottles stood on the table, or more accurately, three bottles were passing from hand to hand around the table, all being thoroughly, if not liberally, enjoyed. She hesitated, wary, but he made impatient motions with the butt end of the bottle urging her to take it. Giving up the fight, there was no arguing with the males of this particular species of men—What made them so darn stubborn?—Loti's nostrils flared investigatively at the bottle's opening before tilting back her head and letting a small swallow slip past her lips.

"Mmmm…" she murmured, almost inaudible, licking amber droplets from her lip.

It had been a long time since she'd tasted apple brandy.

He grinned, seeing the pleased look on her face. "Have another!"

_Another? _

And why shouldn't she have another? She was entitled to enjoy herself just as much as these men were. Yes, alright, she would have another. And did, lifting the bottle once again, gulping two healthy mouthfuls. The brandy travelled down in a sour and corrosive trail, splashing into her belly were at once it purled up warm and sharp behind her nose, spreading like forks of blue lightning through the muscles of arms and legs, tickling up the length of her backbone, and making the hair on her scalp stand on end. Well aged, refined and matured, the brandy was sweet and fruity on her tongue, hot and strong in her blood. If whiskey was the water of life, brandy must surely be the essence of it…

_Oh, what the heck_, she decided, and had another before passing it along.

Her attention returned to the game at hand wherein Eomer and Eoin were locked in a battle of wills, bluffing, and general male puffery over a fairly substantial pot. Leaning in for a closer view, Loti saw Eomer held a run, the nine of spades, a ten of clubs and the jack of hearts; not the best hand possible but most likely a winning one, since most hands of Brag were won by highest card or through sheer bluffing.

In a clatter of tossed coins, Eomer made the final challenge. "Come on, let's see them." His face was inscrutable, slightly frowning, eyes narrowed, lips compressed into a thin line.

Eoin gave what passed for a laugh, a short quick sound like, "Ha!" and laid down a flush, the four, five and six of spades. A good hand, but not good enough to beat what Eomer held.

He took a long, heavy breath through his nose, almost like a reverse sigh, his expression still unreadable. Quite suddenly, he flicked them away, his fingertips sending them scattering into the discard pile, the evidence of his assured victory gone.

Loti sat up straight, pushing herself away from the wooden table, astonished. _What the-?_

_Was he-?_

No… he wasn't possibly…!

"But, Eomer—" she started to say, sweeping a quick finger in a rather slack jawed way from the discard pile to Eoin's hand of cards still face up on the tabletop to the pile of coins the man was greedily sweeping out of the pot.

His head rotated very slowly on its axis until a glare, a very cold and very hard glare, fell on her and for an instant she felt like scooting several feet away.

"I've been playing Brag a very long time," he began evenly, menacingly. His lips moved, but his jaw was fixed. "I know a winning hand when I see it."

Her mouth started to form the word, "But", and his face changed only slightly into something of warning, a single upraised eyebrow. _Don't question me_, it said.

A few hands later, he did it again, folding to Eoin, over a good size pot on what was certainly a winning hand.

_He most certainly was! _

"Eomer—" she chirped.

"What?" Angrily, he pounded a fist on the table, making coins jump, cards slide and bottles wobble.

Reacting quickly, Eothian inserted himself into fray, calmly thrusting the bottle of brandy back into her hands. The man recognized a brouhaha stirring when he saw it. "Here you go, lassie, have another."

Several hands of cards and several pulls from the brandy bottle later, Loti decided she was brave enough to play on her own. If the sigh Eomer gave when reaching for his leather pouch wasn't an indication of his dislike of this idea, the twist of his mouth definitely was.

She had always assumed kings and nobility to be lavish sorts of people, rich beyond belief, unconcerned about how they spent their wealth or where it came from. But this king, although generous to a fault and charitable—she had witnessed him handing out coins to children begging at the gate—could be extraordinarily and shamelessly cheap. He wasn't about to let nearly three decades of Rohirric frugality be overshadowed by a year and a half of kingship.

He up-ended the bag, little bits of this and that falling out and rolling around onto the wooden board in front of him, and busily collected the scattered coins for her stake in the game. One object caught her eye as it slumped round and round and round in a rolling circle.

"Eomer." His name bubbled up as a giggle in her throat. "Explain what this is."

She held out the tiny wooden idol of the fat woman with the drooping breasts.

"What? Oh, that," he said vaguely, noticing now what she was holding while setting a small pile of coins in front of her. "It's a charm."

The Rohirrim, like the Haradrim, were superstitious. Rohirrim superstitions, though, were focused more on things that could not be seen or touched or understood, like ghosts, death, eternity, and fertility.

"A charm?" she repeated, turning it over in her fingers and examining its flabby rolls and equally flabby backside. The oddest thing about the little carving, besides the vulgar depiction of its gaping quim and grotesque, cellulite ridden, rotund shape, was the faceless head. "What for?"

"What for, indeed," she heard Wolf scoff.

"Against impotence, lassie," Eothain boomed. "What else?"

"Impotence!" She cried, glancing at all the faces lit dimly by the torch light. They had to be fooling!

"Oh, for sure," Aric reassured casually, "we've all got one."

"You do? What do you do with it?"

The question was directed at Eomer, whose mouth was half curved in an all knowing smile, but it was Eothian who answered, blurting out, "You rub it on your cock to keep it hard!"

"You—what?" She broke off going red with mortification and the whole table erupted in paroxysms of guffaws and cackling. Making an effort to regain some of her self possession, Loti exclaimed, "This…you've—it's been rubbed on your—Ew!"

Recoiling, the fat little woman dropped from her fingers, bouncing and rolling over the tabletop. Eomer snatched it up as if it was a gold nugget, dropping it possessively back in the pouch.

"You rubbed it once too, remember?"

Her throat felt instantly tight, her heart jumping and lodging around a gasp, constricting her airway. Yes, she remembered and hated that he must remind her…the power and throb as she gripped him, engorged and quivering in her hand, the smoothness of skin, like the finest satin, pulled taught over the head and shaft of his erection. A cock so thick at the base only her fingertips touched… And she remembered how he made her feel, in his lap, under his hands…feminine, beautiful… alive!

It was well past dark and the silver sliver of the moon had darkened as well, disappearing in its monthly cycle. Only the light of the torches cast off the erieeness of the moonless night and Eomer's eyes, round and black as the sky at midnight, reflected the firelight, dancing in red and orange and amber.

She was suddenly and acutely very aware of him; the heat of his body, the smell of forged steel and leather armor, the proud and regal way he wore them, the size and shape of the backs of his broad hands, the long oft broken fingers of a swordsman, dirty under the nails and toughened with smooth calluses. Those huge hands with the authority to reach out and extend life or kill and take it away…. And the smell of him, raw and musky, hot with stale sweat and the vigorous sexuality of a young man. It found her, that indefinable thing that made a woman want a man, that made her want to lie down, open herself and take him into her body. To give to him and to have him take from her… She was red, her face burning up in a furious discomposing blush, her heart giddy, and her nipples, as tight and as sore as her suddenly heavy breasts had been that day in his cupped hand. A light sweat was making the fabric of her shirt stick to her skin, damp between her breasts, along the nape of her neck and the hollow of her spine and still wetter further south.

It was, she realized with some horror, attraction, like magnets to iron.

Could he feel the pull too, the inexorable tug of that force of nature which could not be fought?

When he spoke again, it was hard, and unfeeling. "Close your mouth, girl."

"Huh?" She mumbled like a simpleton, startled. She was, for once, speechless, unable to summon even one glib retort.

"Unless you plan on doing something useful with that mouth, shut it," he ordered, "It's unbecoming."

Embarrassed in front of the others and taken aback, she clicked her teeth together.

Her tongue poked out then to lick dry lips, but it didn't do much good; her mouth was equally as parched. She grabbed for the nearest bottle, taking a healthy, and, Valar! she hoped, restorative drink.

Many hands of cards and many encouraging sips of brandy later, Loti leaned her elbows on the wood slab of a tabletop and smiled toothlessly, but prettily, at no one in particular. "Someone should tell me a story."

"A story," Wolf repeated, itching under his gray hairy chin with raspy, scratching noises, "What kind of story?"

Loti pursed numb lips, thinking, and then tossed a heavy hand through the air in an overly exaggerated wave. "It doesn't matter. Any kind of story. But make it a good story, "she warned, pointing a finger, "Those are the best kind." Deciding this warning may have been a touch rude, she smiled indiscriminately again, eyes narrowed into slits rimmed by long black lashes like leaves on a tree and just a difficult to look through.

Her head was awfully heavy on her neck, like a plumb bob swinging on a string, giving her the distinct impression that she was slightly off kilter. She was becoming, if not already, deliciously muddled.

Eothain heaved a sigh, flapping his lips as he blew out the air from his lungs. "Any story…huh?…"

Nodding gravely, Loti finally picked up her three cards at Eomer's impatient urging, refocusing her eyes with some difficulty. Slumping towards him as Eothain pondered the possible list of inappropriate stories he knew, Loti poked the big chain mail clad arm and whispered loudly, "E, have you tried this? It's good stuff."

Aric, getting to his feet and tugging at the laces of his fly, displayed once again his ability to be obvious and inarticulate at the same time, slurring, "Tha' gurl'z drunk."

Aric was a tall, lanky man, and unlike Eomer, who moved with the sure footed grace of a panther, suffered from an acute lack of coordination. As he turned from the game, announcing he was "going to water the flowers", his feet got tangled and he tripped, nearly diving head long into a clump of dandelions.

"Looks like she's not the only one," Eoin muttered in insinuation.

"How do you know when you're drunk?" She inquired generally.

"Oh, that's an easy one," Wolf responded quickly, "Can you still find your backside with both hands in the dark?"

Loti blinked, and began very gingerly to pat herself down, not feeling very much along the way, until her hands found her bottom. "Got it!"

"Well, then, you're not drunk enough! It's when you start finding someone else's ass in the dark that you should worry!"

Bottle in hand, Wolf raised a toast to Loti who returned the adoration by lifting the brandy to her lips and decanting most of it down her chin.

"Alright, that's enough," Eomer growled, ripping the bottle from her hands amidst a squawk of protest as she dabbed at the droplets of sticky brandy on her chest and between her breasts.

His head twisted suddenly in Aric's direction, who was coming back from his piss expostulating about something or another, when Eomer heard the musical glug of liquid next to him. He caught her red handed, looking both wide eyed with guilt and innocent as a newly hatched chick, lips glued firmly around the bottle's neck.

"I said that's enough." He grabbed at the earthenware container, literally jerking it from hands and mouth, putting it to his nose and inhaling. Whiskey this time.

"Why do you encourage her?" He scolded the trio at the table, "Can't you see she's never been drunk before."

"Oh, come on, boy. No harm done. She's safe enough," Eoin said.

Eomer shot Eoin a vicious eye. "You won't be the one holding her hair in the morning, will you? You!" His fingers dug in the muscle of her arm, "You're done for the night."

"Whad're we talkin' about?" Aric chose that moment to return from nature's call, plunking himself down in his seat with a rattle of chain mail and steel, relievedly breaking the growing tensions at the table.

Eomer had watched that little by play, becoming increasingly concerned of her inebriated state. She was a talkative drunk, and silly, but also affectionate. And it was that alone which worried him most. Any man might misconstrue her affections for sexual enticement and hurt her or violate her trust. Not these men, per say, these men he could trust, but others including that boy Red… Well, he would make sure that never happened.

Eothian piped up during a moment of intense awkwardness, interjecting before any other words might be exchanged, and began mechanically dealing out the cards from a newly shuffled deck. "I was about to tell her a story. Now, have you heard the one about the Kings of Rhovanian and the white mare?" He set the unused cards aside.

Glaring belligerently at the new hand of cards as if they had done something wrong, Loti placed them face down on the table, folding. "No, but you should maybe tell me all about it!"

"Well, then," he started, and cleared his throat, like a man about to give a very important speech, "you know that our kin came from the plains of Rhovanian, just east of Mirkwood. Have you ever been there? No? Ahhh!" He sighed with extreme pleasure, smiling. "It's a beautiful place. Nothing but a sea of grass so dark green it looks blue and little hills that go rolling off into the distance. And you should see Dorwinion! The huge estates and vineyards perched high up on the hills looking out over the Sea of Rhun. Just acres and acres of trellises and grape vines."

"You've been there?" She wondered.

"Oh, certainly! Chasing horses or orcs, or both! But the story…A great plague came out of the East killing many of the Northman, including the King, who had no son to take up after him. Meanwhile, there was this man named Finmar, a farmer. He had a dream. The dream said if he could capture a wild white mare and copulate with it, then he should take his place as the rightful King of Rhovanion, and his people would accept him as their king and see his abilities as a sign of fruitfulness and abundance and that they would recover from the sickness and become prosperous again!"

"You mean he had to—"

But he interrupted her interruption. "Shhh! Hold your horses, I'm getting there! So," the game was continuing on, each plopping another two coins in the center of the table, "As I was saying, Finmar left his village in search of the white mare and was gone for many months. Finally, one day he returned leading the mare who was still just as wild as a feral kitten, kicking and rearing, tossing her head and rolling her eyes in her head. He told everyone in the village what he planned to do and they laughed. Who would do such a thing, they asked? The horse was mad and raging. Well, Finmar knew he had to prove his abilities to his people before they would accept him as their king. And the mare settled herself as he put his hands on her rump and all the villagers fell silent as he prepared to—"

At this point Loti's mouth fell open and her eyes bulged.

"And Finmar went from village to village displaying his prowess, being proclaimed on the spot as the King of Rhovanion!"

She made a small choking sound.

"—And it's been a tradition carried on from that day all the way up to the present!"

Loti's head slewed towards Eomer, jellied blue eyes agog. "No…!"

"No. Damn it, man, why do you tell her this stuff? You know she believes whatever you tell her!" He determined from her pale face and vacant stare she was imagining him butting up against the backside of a mare. The thought made him a little pale, too.

"Nah! I've seen him bugger some ugly women but never any horses. Story doesn't end there, though," he said transitioning back to the tale, "It's said that Finmar fell in love with the mare and that his love broke a spell that had been cast over the horse and she turned into a beautiful woman. Or, at least, that's how it's told in the Mark."

Loti frowned. "Well… How is it told elsewhere?"

Now Eomer picked up the tale, with hostility. "In Gondor they say Finmar preferred the horses to women and the mare bore his children. Half horse, half man. At the time Gondorians thought our ancestors were inferior so they made up stories, lies, anything to smear them, make them look ignorant or backwards. The Northmen were just farmers and horsemen! They didn't have the skill of healing or the ability to work metal. And they didn't have Nuemenorian blood with the gift of long life." He turned his head and spat, not out of defamation, but from the acidic combination of bile and liquor that rose with his hatred of supposed Gondorian supremacy. "Fifteen hundred years hasn't changed much."

Aric, freed of inhibition, slurred under his breath, "Someone soun's bitt'r."

"It's not bitterness, it's pride," he bit back, eyes fire.

"I see you haven't forgotten who you are, laddie."

Eomer rounded on Eoin, who spoke with just a hint of condescension in his tone. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He was on the edge of a good boil; that he knew. It had been a nice night so far, lax and lively. The last thing he wanted to do was sour it with hair splitting, bickering and petty political bullshit.

"No, I haven't," he said, his voice so cold he could feel the icy splinters of the words in his mouth, "I am my _father's _son." And with temper still in check, he got up to take his own piss.

XXX

He returned several minutes later, temper in hand and composure regained, finding tensions at the table greatly reduced; glad his hot headedness hadn't ruined the night.

Loti, flushed and heavy eyed with drink, was snorting effervescently over a joke, giggling with a sound like water trickling over rocks. Her fingers, were also affected by the liquor, having lost most of their dexterity, and after a few failed attempts to pick the cards from the table, dropped them in a flutter to the ground.

"Got it," Eomer said in unison with Loti who articulated an ineloquent, "Uh-oh!" and they nearly missed cracking heads, bending over at the exact same instant to retrieve them. Intoxicated she might be, but she beat him to it, fingers fumbling in the grass to grab the cards. Eomer made no move to sit up, though, since his eyes were staring straight down the neck of her low cut shirt. It was dark and shadowy; there wasn't much to see except some rounded outlines and a hollow space between, but he was a man, and would look anyway.

He must have looked too long because his ears caught snickering and a subtle cough of "Ba-Caw!". Casually, he sat up, raising one shoulder in a non committal shrug.

Concentrating on his own cards, he heard rather than saw her pop up. "Eomer," she said in such an inquisitive voice it made him turn his head with an interrogative grunt.

A gust of fluffy white dandelion seeds met him square in the face, the girl's lips drawn into a bow over the now denuded stem.

"Thank you," he said dryly, brushing downy plant pieces off his eyelashes and out of his beard and nose. "Thank you for that."

Loti found this extremely funny, gurgling, snorting, and wheezing heavily. So funny in fact she swayed on the stool like a windblown sapling, lost her balance, squealed an ineffectual "Whoa!", and toppled over backwards to the ground in a lump. Eoin and Wolf stood up to see if she was alright, Aric was too drunk to care, Eothain cackled and slapped his knee while Eomer just shook his head. He bent down with a sigh, took her by the arms and hauled her into his lap.

"Come on, girl," he grunted, maneuvering the semi limp, vibrating, sloppy mess that was his secretary, "We'll play together a while, eh?"

"Can I have another drink?" She asked politely.

They all let out a resounding, "No!"

"Why not?"

"You've already had half a bottle of apple brandy! Liquor isn't like ale. It takes a while to catch up with you. Here, throw the money in." Eomer told her. She pouted. He held firm.

They played on for some time into the night, indulging in good stories, fine liquor and even finer company. Eomer smiled at her enthusiasm, clapping her hands as she won her first hand of cards, and drew her closer, hoping no one else noticed. She did, though, and snuggled closer to his chest and into the crook of his arm. With bloodshot, half hooded eyes, she smiled hugely in return, twirling a length of his wavy hair round and round one finger.

"Did you know," she said in a soft, halting voice, her breath and skin redolent with the scent of distilled apples, like she had gone head first into the barrel, "you look funny with four eyes."

"I suppose so," he replied, brushing her hair away with the tip of his nose, lips barely grazing the pink shell of her ear, "It'd probably be funnier if I had four heads."

He rolled his eyes inwardly. It was a horrible attempt to be funny, but she spouted with giggles anyway. Gods, she was drunk!

"Look at these two love birds."

"Rooster's found a hen to nest with tonight!"

Loti stiffened in his lap, guiltily jerking her head up, trying to move away, breaking the few seconds of intimacy they shared, and leaving Eomer with the queerest feeling of…loss. Although, he knew she didn't want anyone to think she was playing the whore.

For an instant, he sensed she was struggling to stand, to take her leave of him; to vacate his body as well as the sense of serenity he felt with her so near. Cinching his arm more firmly around her waist, he brought her back to his chest, anchoring her bottom on his thigh despite her thin struggles. A man wants what a man wants, he told himself, and damn it, right now he wanted her next to him. And not, he was surprised to find, out of lust, but simply a desire for companionship.

"What—?" She started to say, but was cut off by the screaming cry of horses somewhere in the distance. All heads snapped around, ears attuned to the noises coming from the distant paddock.

A moment later, once the worried whinnying of horses had lessened and died away, Eomer cleared his throat.

"Heard from your boy lately, Eothain?"

"Oh! To be sure I have! Boy writes a fine hand for one so young."

Messengers rode frequently between the capitals of Rohan and Gondor, the military outposts of South Gondor and the Gondorian naval fleets stationed at the mouth of the Anduin, led by his friend, Imrahil. Eothain had taught his eldest boy, Dwyt, to write. Dwyt, the boy was the smartest child north of the White City, just ask his father, wrote several letters a week when time permitted, keeping his father appraised of the situation at home and allowing Eothain to stay updated with the latest Edoras gossip. It had been a few weeks without any letters, and although he didn't let on, Eomer was quite sure his friend was desperate for news about the newest addition to his family. The notes, no matter how mundane or humdrum, always came with a tiny slice of home and, most importantly, piece of mind. And then there was the continuing saga of the neighbor's spicy love affair to consider…  
Eothian beamed with pride as he reiterated his son's description of his infant daughter, Cwene. "Girl's mother says she looks like me!"

"Oh," Loti blurted, "that's too bad."

"That's what I said! Poor girl. Won't be able to marry her off to no one!"

Talk was interrupted again by another screeching bellow of "Eeee!"; the distinctive high pitched call of mares in distress. This time the outburst of equine squealing was followed by a more ominous, hollow sound, like rending planks of lumber toppling and clunking together, and the much the much deeper voices of Rohirric males cursing, spewing defamatory insults.

Around the card table darting eyes met and worried expressions exchanged. More upraised voices, coming closer…various other non equine noises…the roll of shod hooves on hard packed ground… and then one very shrill, unmistakable horse call.

"Say, Rooster…" Wolf hesitated, un-self consciously placing a hand over his winnings, "that paddock fence you mentioned…"

Then all hell broke loose!

Cries of "Stampede!" were heard just before a gang of half crazed, bulging eyed mares burst out from behind and between a nearby stand of tents, careening around a fire pit. The men around the fire dived head first out of the path of the churning hooves and mad half ton bodies, rolling in heaps of weapons and blonde hair along the ground. Others raced after the herd, waving arms or swinging articles of clothing above their heads in the most chaotic round up of horses Eomer had ever seen.

Eoin, Wolf, Aric and Eothain all leapt to their feet, bumping the table, tipping over empty bottles, scrambling to collect their coins, stuffing them down shirts and boots or sliding them off into purses or pouches. Another piercing horse shriek and the dark gray form of Firefoot emerged out of the night and into the melee, tail arched and ears pricked. The great gray bastard reared, forelegs flailing, and men scattered like ants out of a stepped on ant hill as he struck out, the gigantic yellow teeth claketing together as he stomped and pranced. Charcoal hindquarters rippled and flexed, kicking with enough force to kill a man, freshly shod hooves flashing sliver in the firelight.

Like women being chased by rabid barbarian invaders, the mares scattered.

Eomer howled an encouraging "Hey-O!" at his erstwhile companions as they ran jingling and half drunk in to the fray.

The mares, possibly realizing there was safety in numbers, regrouped and charged off down the path yanking down lines of clean laundry, bashing into tent poles, knocking over stacks of firewood, trodding heavily on one man's foot and bowling over a cask of dark beer.

Luckily, the beer was unharmed, which was more than could be said about the man's foot!

Firefoot, eyes goggling, nostrils and neck muscles flaring in procreative lust, shot down the path after the mares like a cork out of a bottle, leaving havoc in his wake.

With the excitement charging off towards the other end of the camp, things began settling down again. Across the way furniture was righted, poles re-staked, clothing beaten out and re-hung. And the pair sitting together in the dark fell back into the night, forgotten. Eomer was still chuckling over Firefoot's antics when something purely feminine brought him back to reality.

"Mmmm," she hummed, nuzzling his neck, "you smell good."

He started. It had been a good week since he'd bathed last. He must smell like the inside of a well worn old barn boot!

Her lips found a particularly ticklish spot on his throat to nibble and he squirmed, the tip of her tongue licking and sampling. "You taste good, too."

What was she doing?

Why was he asking himself that? He knew what exactly she was doing!

"You're drunk," he said stiffly.

"You're not drunk?" Her head popped up, surprised.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It takes more than a few sips of whiskey to get me drunk."

"Well, you should be," she said, totally illogically.

Lowering his head, he smiled into her upturned fire lit face. "If I was, who would take care of you?"

She didn't answer, but snuggled closer, nuzzling and nipping and he held her tight, enjoying the feel of the slight, unfamiliar weight of her body molded to his chest. Her hair was clean, freshly washed and smelling of sunflower oil, lilacs and the green, musty earthiness of river water.

"Eomer," purred Loti, her mouth near his ear, the whisper from her lips raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

Dazedly, he mumbled, "Hmm?"

"Take me to bed."

There was a spasming lurch deep in his chest, in the pit of his stomach and somewhere in the general area of his groin. She didn't mean her bed, did she...

He rolled his eyes heavenward, girding his loins. _Bema_, he pleaded, but didn't finish the prayer. That deity didn't need to hear any more of his feeble requests for strength. Damn it, this he could do on his own…maybe…he hoped.

"No."

Her fingertips lightly stroked the nape of his neck. "Oooh, why not?"

"I'm afraid you might kill me after."

"You don't want me?" She asked in a whisper, whirring like a cuddled kitten, lips barely grazing square angle of his chin.

"I don't want to die!" Eomer tried to make a joke of it, but he felt tense and uptight, his voice too, even to his own ears.

Loti inclined her head again; the dark blue eyes two black pools in her lovely face. "You really think I would do that to you?" She asked softly.

With her free hand, fingers slender and delicate, she took hold of his much larger one. All the buttons on her shirt were undone—How the hell had she managed that?—exposing the swell and curve of young, firm breasts.

"Touch me," she begged, and arched her back, guiding his hand inside the fabric of her shirt, pressing it invitingly against her breast. She was willing in his lap, supple in his hand. He was aching in his balls, strained and uncomfortable behind the laces of his britches. It had been too long, weeks, since he'd the pleasure of being alone with a woman.

Eomer cupped the soft flesh, then, with hooked a finger, drew away the loose linen of the shirt, her breast popping into view. She made no move to stop him, no effort to cover herself. His thumb brushed her nipple, bringing it eagerly to life under his touch, hard yet still yielding to the influence of tongue of finger. Loti was a small woman, and her breasts too were small, only large enough to fill his hand, not what he was used to. But small did not mean unfeminine. They still had that unique jiggle that was both fascinating and arousing.

His cock was standing—how could it not be?—ready to be unleashed, stroked, tamed, and his balls were hard and drawn up against his body like two ripe hairy plums ready to burst. In his chest Eomer's heart was heavy and sore, but, thankfully still pumping blood. In his gut he knew this was so very wrong and, oh dear Eru, so very right.

She was ready. So was he.

If he took her now, he would last no more than a few thrusts before empting his seed inside her. And he would not pull out, not wanting to waste that precious essence of himself by spilling it on her belly. Loti would have him, all of him, or she would not have him at all.

He moved his hand up, pushing aside the fabric, feeling the round of a slender shoulder, the narrowness of waist, and the bulge of ass and hip and thigh.

Their eyes met once more. She was so close now, her fingers twined in the gold strands of his hair, and he went blindly, urgently, drawn by wordless insistence to her lips. Awkward at first in her compromised state, she became more confident, giving over to his skill and basest male desires. Their lips touched, then their tongues, and Loti moaned into his mouth, a sigh of acknowledgement. Eomer had won. She was his if he wanted, this lithe, slim girl with her delicate features and her fine, slender bones. Bones so fine he could crush them, break her without really even trying. But she was no wraith, either, not like some of the lanky, half starved looking girls he had bedded at court in Gondor. Women who were nothing more than skeletons covered with stretched skin. No, there was nothing scrawny about Loti. She had a feminine softness despite her petite stature, and curves. And a rump like a like a nice fat sow without the curly tail, tight and juicy and round.

"Uhhh…" he groaned against her lips as her hand brushed the hard lump at his laces. A very unmasculine sound that, for one as barbaric as he.

An unexpected torrent of guilt slithered up his spine like a snake as she stroked him through the barrier of soft doeskin, constricting around his chest and sinking its fangs into his heart. The feeling was so upsetting he took her by the shoulders and pushed, breaking the bond of the kiss. She looked as stunned as he felt.

"No," he said hoarsely, his breath coming short. Was he actually doing this, saying no, scrupling at the prospect? Something like this might ruin his reputation, he thought ruefully.

"No," he said regretfully. "We should go back," and hastily made her decent before he could change his mind.

Ponderously, Eomer got her up and walking, keeping her from blundering into things and staggering over her own feet with a hand at her elbow. Near his quarters, Loti gasped and lurched forward, dragging him by the arm towards his tent. "Eomer," she said in a sluggish drunken voice, "My book! I nee-ee-d it! It's in here!"

Eomer followed like an obediently leashed dog as Loti floundered forward, whipping aside the flap of his tent. Once inside she came to such abrupt halt he almost crashed into her from behind. She didn't wait to be chastised, instead pulled his hand over her shoulder and slid it inside her still gaping blouse, cupping her hand over his. "Oo, that feels good," she whispered nestling against him.

His body was a tumult of confusion, from brain to belly to balls. Her face glowed in the light from the few beeswax candles, whether from the candlelight or the heat of physical excitement, Eomer wasn't sure. One thing he did know; she would be exquisite by candlelight, naked, on top of him, and in the throes of passion.

Loti made a little deep moaning sound as he fondled her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers. Her skin was warm, damp, sultry, like the night. Already the skin of her breast was moist with sweat from the heat from his palm. He was sweating freely now, too. They would be slick with it, sliding moist and hot together wherever skin touched skin…just as wet as his fingers, his cock, his mouth would find her between her spread thighs.

"Take me to bed, E."

This request brought Eomer out of his trance. Slowly, he removed his hand, very suddenly feeling very ashamed. Why on earth should he feel ashamed? It wasn't like he'd never lain with a woman too far gone with drink. But this! To do this, with her _like_ this… it felt wrong…like rape. Eomer was sickened to his core, with himself, with his actions so far this evening. Loti was wickedly drunk, clearly fuddled in the head and probably had no idea what she was saying or doing. How would it be for her to wake in the morning next to him having no recollection of what had happened? She would think it rape… and she would be right.

And that burden of betrayal would lie solely with Eomer.

He wrapped his big armored arms around her slender shoulders and chest, smoothing his cheek along her hair, catching some of the long brown strands in his beard. It was a gesture of gentleness, the promise of a man whose power was held in check, "No, Hen. I can't. I'm sorry."

Hen. Now why had he called her that?

Muscles bunched as she roused out of her lethargic stupor. "Why not?" Whined Loti, stomping her foot like an entitled Gondorian princess.

"Why not? Why not?" Whirling her around, he gripped her by the arms, giving her a shake. Not a belligerent shaking, just enough to show he meant business. Her eyes rolled about like they were marbles in her head, finally staring up at him cross eyed. "Woman! Do you think so little of me?" he snapped sharply, "Or of yourself?"

Before giving himself another second to think, Eomer got ahold of a handful of perky posterior, crushed Loti to his him and kissed her full on the mouth. She didn't struggle. Her lips parted instinctively to let him taste her, the brandy lingering sharp and spicy inside her mouth. It was a tender kiss and all the more arousing for it fierceness.

Just as quickly, he thrust her back, the expression on her face, in the beautiful blue eyes, complete turmoil. "I told you," said Eomer in the same formal tone of voice he used with the youngest and most inexperienced of his soldiers, "I cannot. You deserve better. Better than me. I'll hurt you. Please-don't ask me again." With that, he turned on his heel, leaving Loti rooted to the spot while he retrieved her father's book from his desk.

When he turned around, he stopped dead, a painful weight in his chest that made him feel like the monster she had once accused him of being. Her eyes were red with distress, her face streaked with tears that glimmered and sparked in the golden light from the candle like tiny diamonds on her skin, lips squeezed to keep them from quivering. After a brief moment of each looking forlorn and staring miserably at the other, Loti flung herself, somewhat unsteadily, at Eomer, wrapping her arms tightly about his waist, clinging to him with all her strength as she tried not to tremble, failing utterly.

"Ah—" he intoned, gazing down at the sunburned part on top of her head, a wave of panic eating at his stomach. In all honesty, he was afraid to touch the girl!

What did they say to do about crying women? Hug them? Leave them alone? Feed them sweetmeats?

In a life spent warring, soldiering, and farming, of dedicating his life to his lord, his land and his people, Eomer hadn't the time or opportunity to form close relationships with women, apart from his sister that was. And Eowyn, he thought, had the constitution of an iron rod. He could not recall ever seeing her cry.

After some moments of consideration and dithering, he settled on hugging. It seemed the most logical, since she was already doing it to him.

"What's the matter, hen?" He soothed endearingly, stroking her back, "Tell me, it will be better." It was only then the thought occurred in his head. "Has someone hurt you?" His voice was demanding, forceful. "What did they do? Was it someone here?" The image of the boy, Red, doing violence to his most valued servant burned into the backs of his eyes like a scorching summer sun, but upon review, Eomer dismissed this notion. Red, like most of the younger men, was too wary of his explosive temper and unpredictable moods to try anything that stupid.

"Tell me so I can hang the fucker by his stones!"

She didn't answer, but sobbed openly, sniffing wetly, leaving tear stains on the hard leather of his chest. Her non answer shredded his heart, like a cat clawing a lace curtain.

"Thank—you," she gulped finally.

"Tha-? For what?"

Rubbing her cheek against his chest, she spoke so quietly he had difficulty understanding what she said in between the jags of weeping and the snuffles. "I thought you would be just like them…when we met…but you're not. You're the only one… the only one who cared if I lived or died. Thank you for taking me away…for not…doing what they did…saving me from them."

Smoothing her hair on the crown of her head, Eomer, sought to allay any of her remaining fears. "I could never hurt you."

She had mentioned the vague and nebulous _them _again. Well, by gods, it was about time he found out who these damned _them_ were! Shuffling her backwards with some difficulty, he settled her on the edge of his bed and knelt between her knees, cupping her chin with one of his large, warm hands.

"Loti, girl," he coaxed, in the same husky, dulcet tones he used to soothe skitterish horses. She was so vulnerable sitting before him, red eyed, puffy faced, tear streaked, runny nosed; not at all the foul mouthed, sharp tongued, disapproving, belligerent, short tempered bitch he knew and had grown to respect and admire. "You're safe here. I'll never let anyone hurt you. Do you know that? Huh? You are one of my people." He went on trying to be reassuring, "You have my protection. My life if you need it. I'm sworn to it. Do you believe me, hen?"

She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and sniffed, nodding.

"Good. Now you need to tell me what happened to you."

That got her attention. Loti's red eyes opened into huge blue circles. "No!"

"Why not? I can make it so they can't ever hurt you again."

"That's what I'm afraid of!" She wailed. "They'll kill you! They've already tried and they won't stop! I know they won't! I don't want anyone else to die because of me. Please, Eomer."

Brushing a few stray hairs out of her eyes, he smiled sweetly and sighed, "You're a very silly girl, you know that?"

By now she had managed to compose herself, wiping tears from her cheeks and running her hand beneath her dripping nose, inhaling thickly. Her breath reeked of apple brandy. "Do you know what today is?" She asked, deviating from the topic being discussed.

"Ah…yah, of course. It's mid summer's day."

"It's also the day of my bir—" she hiccupped, "—p."

He smiled again at her drunkenness as she swayed uneasily on the bed. "Your burp—oh—you mean your natal day. I didn't know that, I'm sorry."

This time it was Loti who smiled, sniffling, no longer whimpering, and showing off her straight white teeth. "I'm twenty and one," she said proudly, imitating Eoin and Wolf's incorrect verbiage. "Why do they say it that way?"

She didn't allow him time to answer. Without warning, she blanched, her drink flushed face going pale as a freshly washed sheet. Catching hold of her before she toppled off the bed, Loti told him, "I'm not feeling so good."

Eomer chuckled, not without sympathy. "I can't imagine why. Here, lay down." Carefully, he eased her onto the mattress. "You'll feel like you're spinning in the bed, but at least you won't fall out. Try not to, ah…I'll go get some water."

By the time he returned, water bucket and dipper in hand, she was passed out cold, open mouthed and snoring. Taking a dipper full of the iron rich water for himself, he scratched the back of his neck, considering. He decided against carrying her back to her own bed. There was plenty of room to climb in next to her, but he dispensed with that idea, too.

Well, there was no help for it. He'd be sleeping on the floor, banished from his own bed by, of all things, a woman who wasn't even his wife! This, of course, was a voluntary banishment. Eomer supposed she wouldn't appreciate finding herself next to him come morning and, more importantly, he wasn't so sure he could keep his hands, or his other body parts away from her.

"Damned women," he muttered to himself, not unkindly. Women! The bane of every man's existence! One at a time, Eomer pulled off her boots, gently as not to wake her, although he was pretty sure he would not, swung her legs up on the bed and covered her with the sheet.

After removing his armor and blowing out the candles, Eomer lay down on the ground next to her in britches and shirt. A minute later he had second thoughts, and got up to put the chamber pot next to the bed, lying down again several feet away. Outside, the fire in the pit was burning low, but the light still spilled in through the gap in the tent's entrance, casting Loti in a faint yellow flicker.

His body was doing all kinds of things it shouldn't. _Mmhmm_, he thought, putting a hand to his crotch, feeling the stiffness there and the ache of his need under the pressure of his touch. It was times like this he wished he could be an unscrupulous, immoral bastard. Eomer rolled his head towards Loti, dozing soporifically under her blanket of firelight. When his hand moved, his penis twitched and his heart raced. He squirmed uncomfortably, as if his skin were too tight. Shit, he'd be sleeping on a hard cock all night!

Unless…

Eomer moved his hand again, enjoying the flaring response of his blood, the throbbing reaction of excitement. Closing his eyes, he dug through a catalog of images filed neatly in his mind, selecting and discarding, until finally settling on a still picture of Loti, bent over the fence rail feeding her horse an apple, flaunting that tear drop shaped rear end, skirts kilted up to her knees. He'd smacked her hard on the rump that time, nearly scaring her out of her skin.

One blue eye opened covertly observing her slumbering. If she should wake and find him otherwise engaged… Well, so much the better!, he concluded and pulled at the knot of his laces, eager for hedonistic pleasure and release.

XXX

In the morning, Eomer woke to the sound of bedclothes being whisked off, the very fast padding of bare feet on sandy grass, and the sore, painful, gasp and choke of retching. This noise made his own stomach curdle a bit. Drinking his supper always left him with a hole in his gut and a taste in his mouth as if he'd drunk undiluted vinegar.

The sloppy vomiting noises outside had stopped so Eomer rolled up on one elbow, stiff and groaning from sleeping on the ground, and hauled himself up to check the status of the girl's condition. The sun in the sky was blazing when he threw open the tent flap, heating the clear morning air into a thick, hazy soup one could eat with a spoon. Head aching dully, maybe he'd a nip too much last night too, and futilely shading his eyes from the suns burning rays, he found her between his tent and the next. She was bent over a bucket, clasping the edge of the rim, forehead resting on the backs of her hands with her shoulders slumped, racked with the bone deep exhaustion of heaving and morning after regret.

A baleful moan wafted from the depths of the bucket. Eomer blew a long breath out through his nose, approaching.

"Aren't you a pitiful sight," he said, sympathetically rubbing her back as he knelt down. A shudder went through Loti's body, and she lifted her eyes, looking distinctly green about the gills. She grunted something indeterminately ambiguous, the deep blue eyes no more than slits ringed by circles and puffiness. Her flushed face went suddenly pale, and Eomer, sensing what was coming next, swept the brown mass of her hair clear of the mess. Not surprisingly, after spitting copiously, Loti shook once more and began whimpering again.

"What's all this then?" called a familiar Rohirric voice as he creaked with saddle and tack, "Gone soft in your middle age?"

"Hey!" A second voice said to the first, pointing, "I told you he'd be doing it, the gallant gentleman Rooster is, holding the lassie's hair! You owe me a gold coin!"

The first man twisted his head over his shoulder to glare at his friend. "What? Me? Bullshit! I said he's keen on a lassie in distress not that he'd—"

"Go fuck yourself, cock bite. You too, ass munch," Eomer crabbed at the cheery pair of Eoin and Wolf, unable to keep from smiling as he did so. "You two ass bandits don't have enough work?"

"Oh, work is it? Going over right now to fix the paddock fence and this time I'll be the one seeing it's done properly. I never should've let a nobleman do a carpenters work," Eoin teased, brandishing a hammer and bag of crudely made nails; long, rusty old things with square heads.

Hefting the saddle in his arms, Wolf took a step forward, assessing. "Hang over is it? I've got just the cure. A bit of charcoal, mixed with water in an old shoe and stirred with a chicken bone."

The brown head bobbed up from the darkest recesses of the bucket.

"No, man. A raw egg beaten up in some goat's milk and if that don't do the trick, hair 'o the dog! That's my personal favorite," Eoin offered helpfully and winked.

In a hoarse voice, Loti asked, "Do they work?"

Her lips were pale, bloodless, and Eomer could see the pulse beating in her neck rapid, but steady.

"No. They're meant to make you throw up. I don't think you need help with that just now."

She burped. "Oh," and the head sunk back in the pal.

"You should really keep a closer eye on her, Rooster, you know, to see she doesn't get herself into these situations the next time."

Eomer glared up at the canine like creature, carnassial teeth bared behind the upturned lips. Very dryly, he said, "I'm not going to worry too much about it, seeing as how there isn't going to be a next time."

"Let's go, old man," Eoin prodded his friend's paunched, leather covered body with the business end of the hammer, "Roosters and hens don't like wolves sticking their nose into the chicken coop."

As the two walked off to begin their daily duties, Eomer caught the rest of the conversation, dying away on a muggy wind.

"Think we'll ever see any chicks out of that cock-a-do?"

"Can't say. Let's hope he finds a wife first, eh?"

Another inarticulate noise came from beside him, one of imminent death by hang over.

"I thought you said drinking was fun."

"It is fun," Eomer corrected, "When you have to tolerance for it."

With an effort of great strength, Loti sat back on her heels. "I've had about all the fun I can handle."

"Come on," he encouraged, hoisting her to her feet, "I'll put you back to bed. Bring your bucket."

Inside, Eomer sat his charge on the bed, plied her with honey sweetened water, and tucked her into his bed. The bed frame creaked under his weight as he sunk down next her, administering sympathetic noises and hair smoothing, these being the most effective female hangover cures available. He chuckled softly to himself. Ghaw, she looked as if she'd been trampled by a pack of starving hobbits on their way to a feast!

The lid of one red eye fell open. "What's so funny?" she asked weakly. The eye slid shut.

"Nothing, really. I was just thinking about the first time I was drunk."

"Mmmm," murmured Loti, using that generic Rohirric term that meant just about anything. "Tell me about it."

"Alright." He pursed his lips in a tight mannered way, and nodded acquiescently. "I was six."

The eyes opened again. "Six!" She said in groggy disbelief.

"Yah…I was corrupted by Eothain at an early age, him being older and all. He was eight." Eomer smiled crookedly, reminiscing. "We were raiding the buttery in my fa—in the house, looking for cakes or tarts or whatever we could get a hold of. Eothain found a bottle of raspberry cordial. I don't know if he knew what it was or not, but we took as much as we could carry and ran off to the barn. When we didn't come in for supper, Da came looking for us and found us in the back of a horse box sticky with jelly and stinking drunk. I think my Da found it funny, but my Ma…ghaw, she had a temper. I was big for my age," he looked down at himself, shrugging self deprecatingly, and watched as a small grin grew on her face, "Still am, I suppose. I was as big as the ten or twelve year old boys, but my mother made my Da put me over his knee anyway and tan my bare ass in front of everyone in the hall for stealing, idleness, drunkenness," he counted his offenses on his fingers, "Oh! And for ruining my supper! Eothain got off without the public humiliation, but got the switch when he got home. Boy couldn't sit a horse for a week!"

Loti made a small huffing sound he took for amusement and decided this was as good a time as any to dispense with the casualness. Something was on his mind and he needed to know. "How much of last night to you remember?"

The eyes widened and she grimaced, creasing them into black lashed cracks. She made a low, mournful sound, remembering, and Eomer's insides felt uncomfortably knotted. "Hardly anything. I wish I could forget the whole night. I think my liver hurts."

His stomach unfisted in relief. "So you don't remember anything?"

The tone of his voice must have held some curiosity or a hint of skepticism because her features came alive in alarm. "Why? What did I do? Did I embarrass myself?"

He patted her shoulder reassuringly and got up. "No, nothing like that. Nothing to worry about. Drink some water, sleep…you'll feel better."

But, as he turned to leave, there was a very tiny part of him, deep inside, that wished she had.

* * *

A/N: It was purely coincidence that Loti got drunk on her 21st birthday. I hadn't even thought of it until I had the idea. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	13. Chapter 13 Sins Of The Father

Eomer needed to do something about that boy.

He glared across the table to the next, chewing his food, and grinding his teeth together in such a way he might crack a tooth. They were so absorbed in each other, neither one even noticed his blue eyed stare of death! His secretary and her red headed-friend? More than friend? Lover? What the hell were they! And for fuck's sake why did they have to go about acting like that in public! And in front of him like this!

It wasn't that he was jealous, he told himself, tearing into a slice of crusty bread like a bear into a deer carcass, it was just… Oh, alright, it _was_ because he was jealous! She was his secretary, damn it, and his responsibility.

_And whose fault is that?_ He asked himself. _You've had your chances._

His tongue poked the hollow, empty space where his tooth had once been. That girl had caused him nothing but trouble from the very moment he'd set eyes on her in those bloody foothills!

No, he didn't really mean that. Did he?

Fuck! He was ornery today!

Loti and Red sat together with the other young men from the Westfold, their heads, one dark, one fair, bent together; their total attention only for each other. They were holding hands under the table, the sneaks, he was able to see it from where he sat! Eomer could see why men stumbled over themselves, engaging in chivalry and other gallant acts of buffoonery in order for her to take notice. He did admit there was something about the girl, something indefinable he couldn't quite put his finger on. A sensuality, and irresistibility, a…

Oh hell! He didn't know! But it was more…More than just female sexuality…and it something incongruous, too. It was the way she rode a horse, erect and tall, almost stately in the saddle, the way the beast Thrys, a dangerous and surly piece of dog's meat, became calm and obedient in her presence, the charisma and rapport that had secured his men's trust, the air of confidence and command that earned his own deep respect of her abilities. All these admirable qualities in an abused girl, who should, for all intensive purposes, behave cowardly, intimidated and self preserving.

Absently chewing and not tasting, he kept watch, miffed and grouchy feeling, waiting to be provoked. There was something between those two, something more than mere friendship would allow for, no matter how hard the girl tried to deny it; a closeness, a level of intimacy, be it physical or spiritual, that Eomer didn't think he and Loti, despite their daily proximity and non stop togetherness, yet possessed.

One day he hoped to have a bond like that, a deep connection with a woman that stretched beyond the bounds of joined flesh and his own immediate selfish pleasures. But when…Certainly, he didn't have the time now, maybe not for a few more years. And with who? Whores, hangers-on, another man's wife, some Gondorian nobleman's spoiled, virginal daughter half his age?

Ugh, virgins! He shuddered a bit at that thought. Imagine that wedding night! His enormous, scarred barbarian's body squashing some naïve maiden, making her shriek, ramming inside that tight sheath. Hell! A girl like that would die of fright before he even touched her!

No, he decided _again_, what he needed was a woman.

Shifting uncomfortably on the bench like his skin was too tight, Eomer idly stirred his spoon through the bowl of whatever it was in front of him becoming increasingly agitated and fidgety. Once a man started feeling like this, all brooding, upset, envious, he needed to go get himself a nice plumb lassie who would remind him what kind of man he really was.

Through the haze of lecherous daydreams and depressing thoughts of arranged marriages, he caught a flicker of movement, of red hair. Was that misbegotten son of a-?

Quick as a striking snake, Eomer was up and out of his seat, long legs carrying him over to the other table, yanking that red headed bastard by the queued tail of his hair and planting a huge boot right in the center of his chest. Pinning Red to the ground, then he was—

"Hey," Eothain was saying next to him, "I'm speaking on you, boy."

Eomer exhaled loudly, trying for casualness and loosened the screwed up muscles of face and upper body, dropping his eyes into the bowl. No, they weren't, he had been mistaken _and_ over reacting. The little bugger was just whispering in her ear.

"What's got you so preoccupied?"

Eomer shoveled in a spoonful of supper, mumbling a noise around the food; he never should have let the gossip king catch him staring. Leaning closer, Eothian nudged him, butting directly into his line of sight, then with equal casualness, sat back and said, "Oh. I see."

"You don't see anything," snapped Eomer, chewing.

"You can't keep the lassie from the lads forever, boy. Or the lad from the lassie, for that matter, especially here! That's a fresh piece of ground just waiting to be plowed. It's gonna happen eventually. Remember what we were like at that age?"

The faintest suggestion of amusement crept into Eomer's voice. "That's why I'm worried."

"Randy young things we were, eh?" Eothian laughed, "Woe be unto your daughters and the bastards who try to bed them. You'll make trophies out of their balls!"

Eomer chuckled, rumbling softly, but let the subject drop, not in the mood to be wheedled into conversation as Eothain was so annoyingly good at doing. A few moments of silence lapsed between the pair, awkward but friendly.

"When was the last time?" Eothain asked off handedly, the silver flecked blue of his eyes focused on cracking open a nut.

"Why do you care?"

"Well…Can't have my own wife now can I? I have to live through you!"

Intent on his meal, Eomer replied, "A few days ago." He was lying and Eothain knew it, but, to his credit, said nothing. It had been nearly a month since he'd found pleasure in another, an oversight he couldn't hide, certainly not from the one man who knew him best.

Not that he didn't want to, he told himself—he did—but he…

It was just…

There wasn't…

He couldn't…

Well…it didn't take a seer or a wiseman to see what was happening here. He was getting old, and—gods forbid—developing scruples?

The early stages of desire were beginning to gnaw at him like a hungry dog gnashing a bone, a tightening of the muscles of the belly, a constrictive knotting of heart, lungs and throat that made his breathing fast and shallow and his pulse jumpy. And the ache deep in his balls, a need above all others that made a man—that made him—desperate to spill his seed. In a mouth? A cunt? Ghaw, did it matter?

"Mmmm," intoned Eothain inscrutably, still not looking at his friend, "How long since you've slept?"

He didn't answer at first, but eventually said, "About the same."

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he had the creepy crawly sensation of being watched surreptitiously.

"Ahmm," said a tentative boy's voice from behind. The voice cracked and cleared itself, then tried again. "S-Sir."

Eomer turned on the bench to face the boy who was anxiously twitching from foot to foot. He was an unmemorable youth of perhaps seventeen, with a face like a bowl of oatmeal, plain, dull, ashen, and with an uneven surface. What was his name? Svyn? Stieg? Something anciently Rohirric, he wondered, with eight consonants and one obscure vowel, like Strkurvck?

"What?" He asked with an extreme lack of interest, returning to his meal.

"I-ah… Well, it's just—You see—There's a—" the newly name Strkurvck stammered.

This time it was Eothain who faced the boy. "What is it, son? Get yourself into some kind of trouble? Debauch a shopkeeper's daughter and now you've come to beg Himself's mercy?"

The face was no longer oatmeal in color, but instead, was beginning to resemble smashed tomatoes.

"N-No, sir."

"Well, then, have it out and tell the man!"

Strkurvck obeyed, lungs filling, thin chest expanding and out tumbled all the words in one long sentence. "There's a person at the gate who says he knows you, and you know him, and that he's been here before, and that he has something very sensitive he needs to tell you and no one else, and that this information is important, and that he wouldn't have come here except that it was a matter of great importance." After another heaving intake of breath, he continued, "He asks that you see him right away, immediately—"

The boy's words broke off in a nervous swallow and the doughy face drooped in horror, realizing his mistake. Eomer cocked one blonde brow at the boy's presumptuousness.

"—sir."

Then the boy snapped together, boot heels clicking, legs straight as boards, arms ridged at his sides, eyes staring sightlessly off into the distance. "Sir! I didn't mean to—That is—No disrespect. Sir!"

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Eomer cut the boy off with a wave of the hand. "Bring him here."

The last thing his mood needed right now was stumbling attempts to apologize. A little bit of fear and respect for his position was one thing, especially with the younger lads, but this overly dramatic display of formality and subordination was chaffing his already raw nerves.

Eothain barked a curt, "Well, what are you waiting for? Dismissed!" when the boy didn't immediately turn to leave, causing Strkurvck to jump and run off jingling and shaking in his ill fitting armor to let the visitor in.

"What's wrong with these young ones today? Not a thought in their heads. I don't remember acting all mush mouthed like that around your uncle," Eothain observed.

Eomer snorted, absently stirring the contents of his bowl. "I know I wasn't, but I'm pretty sure you were."

A fleeting nostalgic glance in the vanished Strkurvck's direction made Eothain say, "At his age I was already a father."

He followed the other man's gaze, sensing Eothian's regret.

"And a good one you are, too," he assured his friend, genuinely.

XXX

It had been some time since they had seen Asif.

Loti was sitting next to Red, enjoying his company, listening to the pleasantness of his thick country accent as he whispered in her ear and the boldness of his red haired fingers hidden from Eomer's view beneath the table, idly caressing the inside of her thigh. No longer shy about his affections for her, he'd caught her hand behind the tents one evening and kissed her, unskillfully yet softly, on the mouth. Since then they'd spent most of their free time together, lying in the tall grass by the river practicing kissing and the various other things young, attractive people of the opposite sex do when alone. Neither of them had ventured to take the next step in this blossoming, clandestine relationship, not with EomerKing and his band of roaming gossip hounds lurking everywhere.

They were in a very precarious spot, somewhere in the uncertain state between the need to hump like springtime bunnies and the very real fear of the King's all reaching wrath. Should Eomer ever find them engaged in amorous affection, there was honestly no telling what he might do. Still, they met anyway, old enough to understand what might happen, yet too young to care about the consequences.

He was over eager and unsure overlaid with an unabandoned roughness, giving Loti the absurd impression that Red, a Rohirric male in the prime of his youth, was still somewhat innocent.

So it was no surprise when she jumped, nearly startled off the bench and out of her own skin by Eomer barking her name. Her brown head buoyed up to see the Haradrim man, Asif, escorted by four of the Riddermark's finest soldiers. They hovered, discreet yet menacing, as Eomer and Asif exchanged greetings and pleasantries; no translating needed for hand shaking and smiling.

Asif brought baggage with him in the form of a small boy of about four years old clinging to the man's meaty hand. Interested and uninhibited by the strangeness of the Rohirric soldiers, the boy begged to be lifted. Asif obliged indulgently. The boy stared openly at Eomer, taking in the unkempt beard that needed trimming, the wavy blonde hair that needed washing and the dirt caked battle dress that needed polishing. Eomer stared back, the oddest combination of expressions molding his features. Disapproval and dislike of Asif bringing the boy into the camp, dismay over the boy's lack of physical size, happiness at the child's instant like of him, and, Loti could have sworn the sigh of shoulders, twitch of mouth and softening of blue eyes indicated wistful longing. The little boy thrust out his arms, leaning away from Asif towards Eomer towering overhead. Without permission, Asif pushed him into Eomer's arms, the boy clinging monkey like to the big man's neck. Eomer smiled broadly, tormenting the little boy with pokes in the ribs making him squeal with delight.

Loti felt like a voyeur, seeing the stern, melancholy Rohirric king in a moment of unaccustomed happiness. Her heart and womb clenched in longing at the sight of man and boy together. If it was longing Eomer felt, it was what she was feeling also. Longing to hold her own baby, made from the spark of the seed of love.

"There you are," said Eomer brusquely when Loti came into sight, "What does he know today? Ask him if he has any news."

He did.

Asif had been an invaluable informant. True to his word, he had on several occasions indicated both when and where contraband could be taken. Now and again, the shipment contained nothing but weapons, other times a few casks of black power. In any case, the formidable clan leader, al Din, could not be anything but displeased about the loss of his investments.

Asif's physical appearance was better than the last time Loti had seen him, although, he wasn't all together well looking. A thickset man to begin with, he had lost the swollen, bloated look in his face and stomach and the sickly pallor of his skin was replaced with the healthier glow of a well tanned olive, but he seemed somehow haggard, like a man who hadn't had proper sleep in days if not weeks. Loti and the older man exchanged looks of kind acknowledgement before Asif disposed with politeness and got quickly to the point, speaking bluntly. In only a few words she realized the seriousness of the unannounced visit.

Eomer held back as she spoke to the man, butting heads and staring cross eyed at the boy who was clearly some relation to Asif, either son or grandson. Eothain joined in, playing a roughhouse version of ten little piggies with the boy's bare toes and unshod feet.

Even as Asif was beginning to explain the reason for his visit, he threw his hands over his face and, pride notwithstanding, began to sob.

"Eomer…" Loti looked to him, hoping and waiting for him to do something so she didn't have to.

When he didn't immediately do anything except look blank, her mouth shifted to the other side of her face and she slewed her eyes towards Asif, suggestively asking him to do whatever it was that men did in these kinds of situations. Still hanging onto the boy, Eomer, a little startled by her facial contortions and eye jiggling, took the hint, laid a hand on the man's shoulder and gestured for him to sit on the bench, Loti squeezing in between Asif and Eothain.

"Now," Eomer started to say, reestablishing control, "Why is he here?"

"A few days ago, some men came to his village…"

Or more accurately twenty five men, or there abouts. They were big, stout fellows on horseback, armed and dressed in the tribal colors of burgundy and black. All except for one man in a claret colored velvet tunic, ostentatiously embroidered in gold and silver, black leggings and boot. Asif had never seen him, but knew by his manner of dress and upright carriage this must be the man, al Din.

People, by nature, are curious creatures and the villagers began materializing out of huts, shanties, stables, and drinking establishments with interested wariness to see what the visitors intentions might be.

When his audience was sufficiently large enough, the well dressed man alighted from his horse and began to speak, pacing slowly in front of his miniature army in the street.

"I consider myself a generous man," Izz al Din began addressing the crowd at large, "I've allowed you to keep you lands, and stay in your villages after the defeat of your clan and let your children live without fear of being orphaned and your women without fear of rape. I've allowed you these things in exchange for nothing more than your loyalty. Loyalty that you sworn to me upon your defeat."

"Benevolent tyrant, isn't he?" Eothain put in dryly, reaching out to take the squirming, scrawny boy from Eomer so the man could better listen to the story.

"But now," continued al Din, voice ringing with displeasure and his face stretched with anger, "you give me reason to doubt that loyalty. Some of you, maybe a few, have decided to betray your chieftain to those white skinned, hairy cannibals from the north. I will not tolerate disloyalty from any of you. If there is even one traitor among you, then you will all be condemned as traitors, tell me who has betrayed me and the rest of you will be left unharmed."

A flurry of murmurs ran through the crowd while Asif stood near his home with his wife and eldest son listening, panic filling his veins.

"Will no one come forth? I will not ask again!" yelled Izz al Din.

Finally, the chieftain, not receiving the desired answer to his question, jerked his head, ending any hope for peaceful resolution or negotiation.

"Burn it down."

A streak of red and orange cut through the gauzy haze of mid morning sky landing on the thatched roof of a nearby building. A sudden _whoosh_ and within seconds the dry thatch was completely alight, engulfed in fire, flames and sparks billowing into the air to land on other roofs and ignite until half the village was aflame.

Chaos erupted in the streets. People ran, scattering like sand in the wind, crashing into one another and careening off the corners of buildings or locked doors as they fled the melee. Women screamed, instinctively crying out for children or missing husbands as the burgundy and black clad clansmen dismounted, swords drawn, ready to attack. They ransacked the village, clubbing fleeing villagers down in the street and looting like wild animals searching for food. Men and some women fell, unmoving, in the streets.

Two burly men muscled past Asif and his son as they defended their home and property, bent on thuggery and destruction. The sounds of tumbling crockery, overturned furniture, pillary and sanctioned thievery coming from within were abruptly replaced by shrieks and shrill female cries of resistance as the thugs dragged Asif's seventeen year old daughter from the cottage, struggling.

"This fine beauty must be yours," Izz al Din said, his voice a black melody in Asif's ear, thick and dark as venous blood dripping from a wound. He strode appraisingly to the girl held in the vice like clutches of the marauders, cool and casual, and unaffected by the havoc being wrecked on the villagers around him. Well manicured fingers plucked a hank of the girl's long, dark hair from her breast, and al Din lifted it to his nose.

"Ah," he inhaled reverently, "You smell like the wild flowers that grow by the river. Fresh. Delicate. Unpicked."

The chieftain, regarded Asif, restrained now by two more men, brow cocked in amusement, eyes bright with the lust of conquest.

"Too bad for you then," he said.

Asif was no coward, but neither did he believe that Izz al Din could be persuaded from his intended course.

A sob caught in Asif's throat, his eyes filling with tears, and he broke down once again, the sad sounds of a father in mourning rattling the old man's body so that, for the moment, he was unable to continue.

Sympathetically, Loti patted the man's shoulder and made shushing noises, watching Eomer's lips become a thin, hard line his beard.

"Don't tell me. She's dead."

Still patting, she shook her head. "No, but she might as well be."

The implication took Eomer by surprise because he blinked; clearly he expected the story to end in a much more gruesome way. He ran a hand over his mouth, linked his fingers on top of his head and started to pace, wandering around in random circular patterns. His path on one of these meditative jaunts took him past one of the commissary tables. Eomer had neither a cool head nor the ability to curtail some of his more impulsive acts. He kicked over an enormous solid oak table in a fit of explosive rage sending utensils, bowls and platters to the ground in a clattering cascade of wood, toppling and skittering across the ground. Some very creative cursing in two languages ensued, and alerted eyes and heads jerked up to see what caused the commotion. Loti was pretty sure she recognized a few slanderous Elvish epithets mixed in with the Rohirric and Westron. Cursing was probably the only Elvish he had ever bothered to learn.

Picking up the pieces of his lost mind, Eomer marched back to the three of them on the bench, burning, yet frighteningly calm.

"What else?"

"They broke his son's leg and roughed up Asif."

"How many days ago?"

"Three," she told him.

"But no one recognized Asif?"

"Asif isn't the only one doing this kind of work for al Din," Loti explained, "The men talk in the ale houses, that's how he knows when and where al Din's shipments are coming in. He says he's been careful to not draw too much attention to himself."

Eomer's hair was loose today, hanging in blonde streaked tangles and unruly waves, clinging to his sweaty neck or caught in his eyelashes. He brushed the strands from his eyes.

"What is he doing here? Why is he telling us this?" he demanded.

Asif was quiet for a minute, collecting his thoughts, but when he spoke again, it was with resolution of spirit.

"This man who calls himself chieftain, he is a man who takes what he wants without consideration for another, cares not for our needs. He has taken the freedom of my people, threatened our lives, demanded that we obey, claims that we are his people but has never treated us that way. He is cruel and has the blackest of hearts. I will no longer allow my family to live in fear of such a man. I have been thinking," he raised a finger in the air, "I do not owe loyalty to a man who has no loyalty to me. An oath taken means an oath should be given in return. I will no longer serve such a man. I no longer accept him as my chief."

Eomer bowed his head in agreement with Asif's conclusions. The man was quite the thinker, unassuming as he might be, but what he said next left her a bit stunned.

"What if he could deliver the man who's been supplying al Din with the black powder?" she said, excitedly.

"How?" Eomer grabbed the much smaller man by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet.

"It's only hearsay!" Asif hastened to add.

"Tell me!" Eomer prodded, his head swinging from the man he grasped to Loti, insistent.

"He says," she waited, listening to the flurry of Haradrim, weeding out the unimportant parts, "He says al Din is to meet a man from Gondor. Some distance from here. It's a small village on the river."

Quite logically, Eothain asked, "How did he happen to come by this?"

"He heard it from a man who knew a man who is one of al Din's messengers. This messenger was in his friend's tavern, drunk, and telling how he had just come back from delivering a message to a Gondorian who would help the Haradrim retake their lost lands and destroy Gondor and its allies."

"And he feels this information is credible?" Eomer wondered.

"Yes," Loti answered, "He seems to think so."

Decision made, Eomer turned to Eothain, who handed the little boy over to Loti and stood up.

"Find as many men as you can," Eomer said.

Raising an eye to the sky to judge the time of day, Eothain squinted. "Might be difficult at this time of day."

The Rohirric king smacked his friend on the shoulder and said, "See what you can do," before they brushed past each other, eager and intent on their separate missions.

Eomer had only walked a few paces before he stopped to loom menacingly over the table where Loti had been sitting only minutes ago. He snatched both Red and another young man by the scruff of the neck, yanking them to their feet and almost, but not quite, hurling them after Eothain.

"You!" he commanded in the plural, glaring around the table, "Follow him. Find your saddles. Now!"

They didn't need to be told twice. All twelve scrambled to their feet, chiming and ringing with chain mail and weaponry.

"Wait! Eomer!" Loti called after him as Asif helpfully disentangled the boy's thin, lanky arms from her neck amid high pitched protest. She leapt to her feet. "Don't you want to hear the rest of it?"

He took a step forward, face stern but quizzical and strung tight as a bow string, almost vibrating with anticipation.

"The rest of it?" he asked curiously.

"He, ah," she waved a hand at Asif. "He, um…He'd like to offer you his daughter!" she blurted. What a fool she was for feeling so jealous!

"His daughter? Why?"

"Well, she's… ruined. He thinks she'd be better off with you. Here!"

"Here?" he repeated, irritably throwing his arms out from his sides. "What the hell is she going to here?"

"Oh, I don't know, Eomer, maybe to be your mistress!" she snapped, not caring if her voice lost all pretense of diplomacy.

The corner of Eomer's mouth tucked back and his forehead wrinkled in one of his disapproving scowls. He crossed the distance between them in only a few long legged steps, coming to a halt in front of Asif, lowering over the man with a narrowed blue glare. Then Eomer reached beneath his armor and pulled out the leather pouch he wore around his neck. From this he extracted several gold coins and held them up, sunlight glinting sparks off the yellow metal.

"For his…loss. And about the other thing," the corner of his mouth curled up crookedly, his voice low and heavily accented, "Tell him thank you for the offer, but one Haradrim girl is all I think I can handle right now."

One of his blue eyes flashed in a wink, flirtatious and slightly suggestive, and her knees nearly gave out, turning from solid bone to liquid rubber. She felt the tension flow out of her body, like water poured from a jug, her heart unclenching, and the apprehensive jealousy she felt at the thought of some unknown, nubile younger woman sharing his bed, completely disappearing. It was disconcerting, this ability he had to make her melt as though she stood like butter in a hot pan.

Next to her, Asif made an interested noise. "Oh, My apologies. I did not know the two of you… I meant no offense." His pause and what he left unsaid suggested all kinds of indelicacy.

Loti eyed him, fuddled at first. "He and—We? No!" She denied emphatically with a small flippant gesture of the hand, "No. We do not even like each other."

Asif shrugged in a way that said he wasn't entirely convinced, but didn't pursue it.

The three of them spent several minutes in detailed discussion determining the distance and location of the village in question, how long it might take to reach on horseback and the general conditions they might find there. Whose tribe had they belonged to? Were the locals friendly or hostile? Did they have loyalties or sympathies towards al Din or his tribe? What was the local perception of Gondor, of Rohan?

When Eomer had exhausted his questions, he called for the guard detail, bowed politely, thanking Asif for coming, and stood patiently with Loti watching him take his leave.

"You're going to let him leave? Just like that? They'll come after him if they find out he's been here," she said.

"What should I do? I can't make him stay and abandon his family. A man with convictions does what's best for his family. It's his choice, I cannot stop him," Eomer argued, ending the discussion by stalking off, leaving Loti with unvoiced opinions in her open mouth.

XXX

"Eomer," Loti hissed, blundering after him, hopping over saddles, dodging a group of men fairly bristling with the sharp steel, and narrowly avoiding tripping over a troop of squealing piglets, "Eomer! This is a bad idea! At least wait for Eoin and Wolf to come back with their men!" Carried by the momentum of the piglet jumping, she managed to wriggle past and block his path. "These are mostly boys!"

"I dare you to tell _them_ that," whispered Eomer hotly, "They think they're men, and so do I!"

Nearly half of the fifty men mustered to ride to the meeting spot Asif described looked to be only seventeen or eighteen, and one or two, younger even younger.

"Then at least wait for more men! Wait until Eoin and Wolf come back!" She pleaded, trying to reason with the unreasonable. "Do you honestly think this man from Gondor or al Din will show up without protection?"

"You seem to have a very low opinion of my abilities all of a sudden," he snarled, elbowing her out of the way while leading Firefoot by the reins.

Undaunted, she followed. "Then let me go with you. You know nothing about the land east of here—"

Eomer's stride came up short. He whipped around, jamming the six foot length of spear he carried point first into the ground, leaving the wooden shaft nervously quivering. "Woman, you're on my last nerve," he warned, and his eyes seemed to flash as though a lightning were in the air. "So you're telling me it's alright for you to ride along and be killed, but not for me? I can't wait for more men. There isn't time. We have to leave now to make it there by nightfall."

"And what if I'm right? You'll be hours from here with no reinforcements!" Then she added in a whisper so others within earshot wouldn't hear, "It will be suicide!"

"You think I'm afraid to die in battle?"

He didn't sound angry or annoyed now, just calm or accepting, as though this were a question he had asked himself a million times and long ago come to terms with the answer.

"That's just it! I do not believe you are," she admitted.

"No, I am not," he answered softly. As if he were admiring a portrait in a gallery, he met and held her eyes with the utmost sincerity, taking in the beauty of creation, the light and shadow of the artist's every brush stroke, fixing his mind in remembrance. His hand lightly squeezed her arm in an act that was to succor her until his return and jerked the spear from the ground, swinging effortlessly into the saddle.

Firefoot sensed her apprehension, nosing her in the armpit and pawing excitedly at the ground; this being the equine version of reassurance. Eomer was well armed, bow and quiver slung across his body, sword and knife at his belt, spear in hand and shield draped protectively from the saddle. But even still, her confidence in his ability as a warrior warred with fear for his safety and the ever present threat of death.

"I'm leaving you in charge," he decreed.

"Me! In charge of this?" Loti swung an arm encompassing horses, tents, food, problems, conflicts, several hundred acres of land and all but fifty of the Riders of Rohan.

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Only 'til Eoin and Wolf get back."

That little start of a smile made Loti's blood roar, turning her sun kissed face red as a beetroot. Did the pig headed fool not see the seriousness? The consequences of his actions? Did he even care?

She yanked down hard on Firefoot's bridle, making the animal snort in surprise. "Eomer, you have not thought this through!"

Suddenly, all of the tenderness and joviality of the moment before was dashed away, his eyes narrowing into icy slits of blue. "I don't remember asking for your opinion."

He offered neither comfort nor farewell. Wheeling his mount's head, he led the way east, the blonde tail of horse hair from his helmet trailing in the wind, the red gold of her companion's head shining like copper in the bright rays of the sun.

XXX

It was three days before they returned.

The camp went about its business the next day, apprehensive, but not overly concerned when by morning the party of warriors had not yet returned. Loti, on the other hand, was rolling herself into a ball of knots like an overly excited kitten with a length of twine and wearing ruts in to the sandy floor of the tent from her pacing.

What had happened? And where? Surely if they could, they would have come home! Could more men be spared to search for them? What if they, too, did not come back, swallowed as the King of the Riddermark had been by the dusts of desert sand and the searing heat of the summer sun? Had they gotten lost, wandering directionless amongst the desert dunes, unable to find water or shelter, unprepared to spend days battling the heat?

What if, right this moment, Eomer was dying? His mouth and throat parched, dry with sand and dirt, his lips cracked and blistered, his mind tortured with thoughts of water and unslaked thirst.

Macabre images of his dead and decaying body sprawled motionless and unconsecrated amongst the rocky cliffs and hidden hollows of the desert flooded her thoughts in the day, consumed her dreams by night. Those beautiful cerulean blue eyes jellied, staring off into a distance he could no longer see, being picked and stabbed at by the sharp hooked beaks of carnivorous desert birds, hungry for the taste of flesh. His long northern bones left to the mercy of the elements, bleached and friable, lost quite literally to the sands of time.

And what of Gullyn and her other friends? Would they share the same horrible fate?

Oh, why hadn't she made him stay, done something more? She should have kicked him between the legs!

Round and round she paced, until, finally at noon that same day, after much eye averting and nervous throat clearing, Wolf sent a small group of men on the long ride to the rendezvous spot. They returned sometime later; no trace of Eomer or his men found.

She had been preparing herself for the worst by the evening of the third day when cries and shouts and distantly upraised voices rang like bells from the far reaches of the camp. A nearer shout of "Ho! The Lord!" and the scuttle of men and horses hooves announced his Majesty's providential homecoming.

They looked awful, even by the light of a dying sun, their fair northern skin brutally sunburned; they and their horses coated in a fine layer of reddish desert dust. About half the men were in this clearing, the rest nearby; Loti could hear them. Wherever her friends were, they would just have to wait.

While the others were beginning to dismount, Eomer sat stubbornly erect in the saddle just a moment too long, jaw clenched like a man fixing his mind to a task of far more immense proportions than getting off a horse. Loti caught the hesitation and hurried forward. He was clearly hurt.

No doubt he saw her coming and with a will borne of absolute intransigence, he swung his right leg over Firefoot's head and slid catlike out of the saddle, biting off several colorful curse words and a grimace.

"Eomer," Loti said with precision, reaching up to inspect a cut on his forehead, "You're hurt."

A scabbed gash along his hair line had cracked open, oozing a fresh trickle of dark blood, and lower down a filthy blood soaked rag was tied around his left thigh.

He pushed past, viciously flinging away her upraised hands. "Leave me alone, girl! Yours are the hands of death!"

Stunned, her mouth fell open. "But—"

Attempting and failing to limp off fast enough to avoid her cosseting, his fingers dug like claws into the muscle of his thigh.

"Help the others first!" He ordered in a voice that brooked no opposition.

She turned with great reluctance to the other men, desperately wanting to see to Eomer personally, when her gaze settled on Eothain, assisting one of his fellows in dismounting. Loti never would have called Eothain a serious man, joker or prankster was a more apt description, but he looked every bit the ruthless barbarian tonight, blood smeared and scowling even as he supported his injured companion. He shook his head grimly, lips and jaw set against all argument, violently thrusting a finger at Eomer's half doubled body in a gesture that meant his orders overruled that of the king's.

Well, if Eomer could be a bullheaded, pain in the ass, so could she!

Stomping determinedly back to his side, she grabbed hold of his arm, looping it over her shoulders. "They don't need any more help here," she told him.

He didn't quibble, she noticed, looking up at a young handsome face etched with the weariness of a man twice his age. He just didn't have it in him.

The limp was decidedly pronounced, and he breathed through his nose like a mare giving birth, the lines of face and body fueled by intense concentration, focused on the next step, and then the next and the next. It was only after they were out of sight of his men that Loti felt the shift and increased pressure of his weight. He leaned quite heavily on her, more so with every step, the need to be seen as the pillar of strength and courage, if only for the sake of his men, for the moment, gone.

_To fuck with male pride then_, she thought sarcastically. There was no reason to impress her with his pig headed willpower!

They stumbled several times nearly falling over together in a heap as his strength waned, leaving Loti to wonder how she would get him back to the tent if he did pass out. The bloody man must weigh over twenty two stone! Could she drag him?

"Come on," Loti prompted encouragingly, "Just a little farther."

If barbarian men dragged women about by the hair, she wondered, digressing from the job at hand, did barbarian women drag their men by the testicles? This bit of reasoning seemed perfectly logical. How else did one keep a man in line?

Finally, after much maneuvering, they managed to squeeze through the entrance of his quarters, Eomer as always ducking his head. She left him standing—balanced mostly on his one good leg— in the dimly lit tent and dragged the camp chair out from behind his desk, watching as he lowered himself into it with a sound somewhere between pain, exhaustion and relief. After lighting all the candles and the brazier, Loti pulled her chair around and sat square in front of Eomer, readying for an entirely different kind of battle.

The inside of the tent glowed surprisingly bright, enough so she could see the crusted, blood blacked rag, and the stained seepage of the hidden wound down the leg of his britches. She plucked gingerly at the edges of the rag, but it had dried and sealed with a thick crust to the edges of the wound. It would need to be soaked off. Without comment, she rose, found a linen towel, soaked it in the pot of hot water hung over the fire outside the tent and returned to lay it over his leg.

What to do now?

Inspiration struck and, busily, Loti started rummaging the storage chests. "Eomer, where do you keep that bottle of raw whiskey?"

He made a thinking noise, but she came up with the bottle before he could answer, shoving it into his hands. "Hold this," she demanded.

Eomer was no different than any man suffering from exhaustion and dehydration, and aching with a badly wounded limb. He regarded the bottle like a sailor laying eyes on a brothel after months at sea. With unrestrained alacrity, Eomer popped the cork with his teeth, put it to his lips, tipped his head back and drank noisily.

"Give me that!" Loti wrenched it from his grasp.

"I thought you wanted me to drink?" He spluttered angrily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Not from that one! That one's for cleaning the wound. Here," she plunked the first bottle on the desk and snatched up another, "this is the good stuff, drink that!"

Thinking the hot towel had sufficiently loosened the blood clotted rag, she plopped back down in the chair, proceeding with the examination. Slowly, a little bit at a time, she worked the rag off, occasionally having to tug and crack loose an especially thick bit of scabbing until it became completely exposed to eyes and nose.

Loti bent over Eomer's leg, peering closely. The wound itself was about five inches long, ragged and black crusted with scabbing around the edges, raw, and slightly gaping. The skin surrounding was dark red with inflammation. It was deep, sunk into the big strip of muscle on the top of his thigh and had a sickly sweet smell beneath the normal tang of healthy blood. Carefully, she ripped the pant leg open, exposing the leg to a more thorough inspection, dabbing lightly around the injury with a corner of the hot towel before confirming her suspicions with gently probing fingers. Red. Swollen. Hot to the touch. Combined with the smell there was every indication that Eomer's leg was badly infected. It had to be terribly sore and must have pained him something awful on the long ride back to camp. But the infection alone wasn't the most troubling.

"Eomer," her brown head snapped up, her voice filled with concern and maybe a hint of condemnation, "How long has it been like this?"

His lips creased tightly as though unwilling to speak, but there was something else in his eyes, hidden in the lines of his face.

Then it hit her like a punch in the face. Oh, gods, he knew, didn't he?

"Three days."

Her eyes dropped once again to his leg and the jagged red lines visible under the tawny haired fair skin, the fine red lines that radiated from the wound, creeping steadily northward towards his heart.

"Your blood is poisoned," she said succinctly, jumping to her feet.

"I know," replied Eomer faintly, clamping one large hand around her elbow as she whirled precipitately in search of supplies and treatment advice. His eyes met hers with a deadly seriousness. "It's bad. I haven't seen it, but Eothain told me," he continued on, "If you know there's nothing you can do, leave it. I am prepared to die."

His work worn hand slid down the length of her arm and through her fingers with infinite tenderness, the tension slipping from his body as he rested into the fabric backing of the chair; the burden of these many days gone just with the saying of it. The blue eyes were sunk deep, ringed with shadow from days without sleep, the broad, high cheekbones hollowed, his skin clammy and more flushed than sunburn might account for. And the thrum of his pulse beat rapid and as hard as a hummingbird's wings in the long tanned throat as his heart pumped blood to stem the tide of the growing fever.

Let him die?

Maybe once. Maybe once she would have enjoyed it, reveled in watching him suffer, slowly, torturously, succumbing to something more terrifying than death; her revenge his awareness of imminent mortality. She would have derived the greatest pleasure from it—once.

But now…

Now things were different, her path inextricable linked with his, her future held in the palm of that big calloused hand; his hand, he who had offered her mercy and forgiveness, purpose and opportunity.

Let him die? No. Not now, not ever.

He may be prepared to die, but she wasn't yet ready to lose him. Just looking at him sitting in that chair, imperial and mule headed, the portrait of asinine male pride, resignation written in the features of his face, nearly made her head explode!

"You're an idiot. You're not going to die because you don't have any choice in the matter! Now start drinking so I don't have to hear you bellyaching! This won't be fun for either one of us."

XXX

Returning a quarter of an hour later bearing a tray with the most rudimentary of medical supplies, Loti began her preparations, using this time to focus her mind. A kettle of water for washing and cleansing sat steaming on the ground near his chair, a small knife for scraping debris from the wound and an assortment of medicaments, herbs for poultices and pain relieving teas, lay on the desk. She had washed her hands and the knife in the cauldron outside, a ritualistic cleansing of the evils from the instruments of healing, and now her skin glowed red and hot to the touch as she tore a clean linen towel into strips for binding.

The slosh of liquid was musical in the beeswax scented air; Eomer, mute, was making his own preparations. Debridement, the removal of foreign matter, dead tissue, and draining of abscesses from the wound, would be a messy and agonizing business, and not just for him. There would be blood, the viscous ooze of yellowish pus, and the stink and sight of dead muscle and skin. And there were the other more sinister complications to consider; nicking a large vessel with the knife causing uncontrolled bleeding, debris imbedded so deeply it would require a more thorough surgical cleaning _while_ the patient remained conscious, the inability to reach a festering abscess or missing the location of one all together, resulting in lingering agony, severe infection of the long bone of his leg and possible rotting of flesh.

Both Loti's hands and knees were shaking and weak. Runnels of sweat trickled down the back of her neck and the crease of her arm was embarrassingly wet. Well, there was no help for it. As frightening as those prospects were, it had to be risked; the alternative for Eomer, for everyone, was much worse. She took a deep, restorative breath, shut her eyes against the panic and irrationality of her mind, and screwed up her courage.

Laying a comforting hand on his shoulder as she passed, Loti sat facing him once again, and dabbed gingerly at the cut on his forehead, deciding. It would need to be stitched, but that could wait until after the leg was tended. Gently, she lifted the linen towel, exposing the gash and prodded it with a finger. The hot, moist towel had done its job, loosening the crust of scabbing, softening the skin and drawing out some of the yellow, white-ish blobs onto the underside of the towel.

"I'm going to scrape the cut to clean it," she explained, "It will hurt. It's better if you don't watch."

She felt his nod of assent and bent to her work. His muscles tensed and flexed, and he tried not to squirm in his seat as she spread the wound and cut away the jagged skin at the opening.

It was difficult work and heart wrenching for Loti. Faced with the prospect of inflicting Eomer with pre mediated pain or letting him die altogether, she had chosen the former, feeling the scrapes and jabs and cuts just as he did, symbiotic as their relationship had now become.

In an effort to distract him, she asked, "How did this happen?" He was breathing evenly but heavily, his knuckles white around the arm of the chair and barrel of the bottle.

Rohirric mumbling was a lot like listening to words filtered through oatmeal. Eomer sounded like this now.

"Hmm?"

"I said you were right!" he voiced a bit louder than necessary.

"I was?" she said, puzzled, "About what?"

"That al Din's men would be there. So I hope you're happy."

"You think I'm happy about this?" she exclaimed defensively, in an usually high pitched sort of way, but refrained from saying more when she saw his face.

Eomer was the color of sour milk and looking quite pinched.

"E, are you alright?"

He swallowed tremulously, cheeks sunk. "Give me the chamber pot."

She leapt to her feet, abruptly pushing back her chair. "E—" was all she got out.

"Give. Me. The chamber pot," he demanded.

Her hand dashed underneath the bed, retrieving the porcelain basin and putting it in his hands just in time for Eomer to be neatly and thoroughly sick. She took the bowl from him as he wiped his mouth and slumped in the chair, head lolling in utter exhaustion.

"E," she said, smoothing away several sweat soaked strands of hair from his forehead. The symptoms of delayed shock were easy to diagnose. Cool, but sweaty skin, fast pulse, rapid but shallow breathing, weakness, lethargy, and pupils dilated into wide, black holes. "Let's get you undressed."

He agreed and let her undress him, removing his protective gear piece by piece until he wore nothing but shirt and torn, bloody britches, a blanket from the bed wrapped securely about his shoulders. Seated before him once more, she made casual conversation. "I never thought you were the squeamish type. You've seen blood and worse before."

"Yah, I have. But it's a little different when it's your own leg split open and—" He winced and drew in his breath sharply as she squeezed a particularly sore pocket of infection. "Fuck, woman, that hurts!"

"I'm sure it does! Keep drinking and hold still or you'll only make it worse," she scolded in her most matronly voice. "Now, talk, tell me what happened."

He moved restlessly in the chair as though collecting his thoughts.

"We came on them in the dark within sight of the village."

"al Din's men?"

His head nodded in confirmation. "They were dressed in plain clothes but I'd assume so. I see _he's_ got no qualms about bringing his men over the border."

"What happened then?"

"They weren't expecting us to show up, that's for sure. I'd say there were about two hundred of them or so but we had the advantage of surprise so at first I thought we might be able to take them. Numbers don't lie, though… There were just too many of them and not enough of us. They managed to get us surrounded and drive us towards the river. All I could think to do was give the order to retreat and cross the river."

"Into Harad? When Gondor's council hears about you taking armed me into-"

"I didn't have much of a choice. Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?" he snapped, irritably.

"No… I mean, yes," Loti conceded, "What I mean is I'm sure you didn't…have much of a choice. Please, continue."

"They rode these ugly things with long legs and necks, with humps on their backs. Ghaw, they spit, too, the nasty buggers!"

"Camels," Loti explained, "Ships of the desert. They store water in the hump on their back. They can go weeks through the desert without water."

"Mmm. Well, funny looking things, lurching all over the place. I was glad they weren't mumakil. The horses are afraid of them. Too big and loud, I suppose, if you're supposed to be meeting someone on the quiet. The camels didn't make much noise when they ran." He shrugged and took a drink, making a face. "These camels must be wicked stubborn, too. When we rode across the river, they didn't want to follow. We could hear their riders yelling at them behind us."

The ride through Harad was exhausting and as arduous as any ride Eomer had ever made. With no clouds in the sky to keep the daytime heat trapped, the nights were usually cool, but that night Eomer was dripping sweat from battle and the horses lathered, both from the day's long ride and the fury of the fighting.

"I see why they like the camels. The wide feet spread their weight out over the sand," Eomer noted.

They continued south, further ensconcing themselves into enemy territory at no more than a trot. The great war horses of the Riddermark, renowned for their endurance and sure footedness on the grassy plains of northern Middle earth, labored and tired as their hooves sank repeatedly into the loose, fluid sands of the desert. Mile after mile, the Riders of Rohan trudged on, the tracks of fifty horses impossible to disguise.

"I knew we'd have to find shelter and water before dawn or we all might die from exposure."

The landscape was stark, arid, the rocky rises and outcroppings scoured and scarred by thousands of years of relentless sand storms. Vegetation was sparse with only the occasional clump of desiccated grass and water even scarcer.

His canteen was dry, his throat thick with thirst and the harsh mineral taste of sand. The inside of his nose tickled, ringed on the outside and coated on the inside with a fine layer of dust. Firefoot had stumbled, his hooves mired and dragging through a quagmire of sand.

"Easy boy," Eomer soothed with a well deserved pat on the neck. Slewing his head, Firefoot shook himself, the tremor rippling from mane to hindquarters, the horse's eyes wide with worry, and his long feathery lashes sparkled brightly in the moonlight as though the particles of sand were, instead, slivers of silver. The rush of the battle and the fear of the pursuing enemy were beginning to wear off, and only now was he feeling the first twinges of ache in his leg. He was still bleeding and it leaked through his fingers as he clutched the gash together, the old blood sticky and smelling suspiciously like his own fear. Of course, it hadn't had time to heal. Ideally, he should be lying still with the injury tightly bound to stop the bleeding. But rest of any kind was not possible. The caravan of Haradrim rode their knobby kneed beasts through the desert as silently as still water and he was unsure how far behind they had actually fallen. He needed every bit of strength his thigh muscles could provide in order to guide and encourage Firefoot forward.

Hours later, sometime in the pre dawn, a man ahead of him stood in his stirrups as they crested a rise and said, "Well look at that!"

Following the man's outstretched finger, far off in the distance and bathed in the light of the setting moon was a formation completely incongruous with the rest of the bleak, sand churned landscape.

"Is that what I think it is?" another man asked.

"Looks like some kind of stone wall," said the first man, "A village, maybe? Think it's safe to stop?"

Eomer didn't care if the place was inhabited by orcs, over run with pestilence, or a gigantic hole in the ground that dropped straight into some sort of otherworldly hell as long as he could get out of this accursed saddle!

In the event, the sentinels at the village gate were easily and cheaply bribed, and the Rohirrim allowed entry into the small walled off oasis populated by stone brick huts, foul smelling livestock and fishy eyed villagers who distrusted strangers.

Eomer had never felt less like a king. Drooping in the saddle, stinking pungently with the odors of dirt and sweat, and weakened by the loss of so much blood, he vehemently waved away any help, poured himself out of the saddle, and collapsed bonelessly against the stone wall. He must have dissolved into unconsciousness at some point just before dawn because he woke to a yellow orange sun, jerking suddenly to a full awareness, hand reaching instinctively for his knife.

"Not to worry, it's only me," Eothain had assured, forcing a wineskin into his hand. "Let's have a look at that leg."

Too mazed with sleep and confused by dehydration, Eomer didn't argue. In fact, he didn't say anything as his friend pried his hand away to examine the wound. Shaking his head, Eothain made a face, and gave him an experimental poking in the leg. "That don't look good," he observed unreassuringly, before rinsing it briefly with water and tying a very unsanitary looking rag around Eomer's thigh.

Loti gaped at him in astonishment, her face an interruption in the telling of the story. "You mean to tell me you rode three days through the desert with just that," her finger pointed in disgust at the dirty, blood soaked rag now lying crumpled on the ground, "tied around you leg? My gods, Eomer, you should have—"

"It wasn't like had much of a choice, did I?" he flung back loudly from whence ensured a long, tension filled pause as Eomer sat organizing his thoughts. Meanwhile, Loti was surprised to notice her spine tingling from tail bone to neck, numbed by the after effects of adrenaline laced fear.

"Aargh!" he grumbled after a time, squirming in his seat, "I'm sorry. You're only trying to help. I won't bother you with the rest of it."

"No, no! I would like to know," she urged.

He drank from a wineskin feeling the bitter acids and tannins burn down the back of his throat as he swallowed. Eothain pulled a hunk of bread and a bit of cheese from his saddle bag, splitting it with Eomer and resting back into the shade, the cool of the wall's thick stones at their backs.

The older man sighed wearily, looking worn and every bit his one and thirty years. "Well, I talked to the village elders or rather, the gold did the talking. It took all we had."

Like an automaton Eomer nodded, bobbing his head and absently tearing apart his chunk of bread.

"The village men are going to ride out on their camels to cover our tracks and get al Din's soldiers off out tails. At least that's what I think they were planning on doing since nobody speaks Rohirric or Westron. Mostly it was just a lot of arm waving. We can stay here 'til nightfall and ride out then. The horses are being looked after. Think you'll be able to ride?" '

Eomer made a vague sort of noise, neither a yes nor a no, and scratched the top of his head. Sand was everywhere; in his eyes, nose, mouth, his beard and hair where caked with it, inside his boots, even the crack of his ass wasn't safe from its abrasive scratchiness. Luckily, the sand fleas had, for the most part, left him alone.

"How are the others?" he asked, his voice hoarse from the dry heat, dust and lack of use.

Negligently lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Eothain said, "Alright for the most part. Most are just tired or thirsty. I told them to rest up while they can. It's a long ride back and we might end up running into al Din's men again in the night."

"How many injured?"

"Ten. Four as bad as you."

"Fatally?" Eomer asked, hoping the answer was none.

His friend's voice was hollow with regret. "One. Nicked in the belly. Not run through, but it doesn't make any difference. The result's still the same. He says he can sit a horse. He doesn't want to die here, not that I can blame him. I wouldn't want to die alone among strangers, either."

Cramming the rest of the bread in his mouth and dusting off his hands, he turned to Eomer. "Try to get some sleep," he advised, rolled over and was dozing within minutes.

Eomer sat for a while in the shade, drinking from the wineskin, watching his men sleep under wagons or date palms, anywhere they might find reprieve from the unforgiving sun. Just watching…

He began to feel it, the slow inexorable creep of it stealing over him like boiling dark storm clouds consuming a summer sky. The sadness, it dulled his senses, making his mind empty to everything except indifference, his heart squeezed to pulp by the fist of a man who must truly hate himself. After a time, though, fatigue got the best of him and Eomer laid his head on a lumpy bag of wool, and fell asleep, his pain clutched tightly in his hand.

His sleep was fitful and uneasy, and he dreamed almost continuously, trapped in his own subconscious. His foster family was there, his uncle and cousin Theodred, his sister and his parents, looking as alive as they last time he had seen them, Eothain and his family, Faramir, and Aragorn and Imrahil, too.

All looked to him, waiting, hopeful, expectant. But what they wanted of him, he didn't know. He tried to ask but couldn't speak, they spoke—he could hear them—but could not understand; their words a distant, murky gibberish in his mind.

A shadowy figure hovered over Eomer when he woke. _Death_, he thought, gazing up at the black shape backlit by a starry sky_. What took so long?_ It knelt, leaned forward, and the dirt streaked face of Eothian appeared, gilded in silver by the harsh light of the moon. "Come on, boy. We're going."

Eomer said nothing, but burrowed further into his poorly stuffed pillow.

"Get up, boy. There's no time for this. We've got to go."

He shrugged off Eothian's shoulder shaking, rolling half over. "Leave me alone," he ordered dejectedly, his eyes creased almost shut. In his head, his voice sounded very far away. "Can't you see I've got the fever, man? I'll only slow you down. Leave the boy here with me. He won't die alone."

"What— Are you drunk?" Eothain asked, picking up and shaking the empty wineskin.

Making a guttural male noise of derision, he said lethargically, "No... I don't know. Probably not. "

Given he was weakened by blood loss and sun stroke, and had eaten virtually nothing in the last thirty hours except a bit of bread and cheese, there was a high probability that at least most of the blood in his veins contained a very large quantity of alcohol.

"And just what am I supposed to tell your sister? That I left you to die in the middle of the desert, all by yourself! Without any argument?" His words were sharp and cutting, said in a way that was meant to hurt and rouse Eomer into action.

"No," Eomer said faintly, emotionless, not taking the bait, "Tell her— Well…tell her I'm sorry about it. I let her down. Tell her…I wasn't afraid to die. She'll know the rest. " He shut his eyes again, feeling very, very weak.

"Hey! Hey!" Eothain smacked him gingerly on the cheek, making his glazed blue eyes snap open again. "Come on, boy, don't do this."

"Promise you'll take care of the girl. Take her home. I feel responsible for her."

Usually an even tempered, complacent man, Eothain's beard bristled, giving him a sort of provoked wild animal appearance. Hands slapped down on Eomer's chest, long sausage like fingers curled underneath the arm hole of his leather armor, and, disregarding any of his friend's physical ailments, heaved him upright. Eomer, still feeling ragged around the edges, hadn't anticipated such an action, and his head cracked off the stones, to little effect. "Am I gonna have to give you a swift boot in the ass, boy? You think I don't know what's going on here? I know you better than anybody else." He shook Eomer, lowering his voice but not its intensity, "These men, they need you. They're hurt and scared. We're lost in the middle of some fucking desert fifty miles from home, being chased by two hundred men riding whatever those ugly things are! They need you to lead them. Or I'll need you if I've got to lead this bunch of rag tag. Now, damn it, you're getting up, getting on that horse and leading us out of here like there's nothing wrong with you. Got it?"

Eomer's lips rose in amusement, head wobbly on his noodle neck. "You, sir, are a horse's ass."

"Hmm. Well, at least I'm not acting like my head's up the horse's ass," said Eothain dryly. "Up you go!"

Loti wiped the knife's blood slicked blade on the towel across her lap, removed and wrung out a section of torn linen from the kettle by her feet and placed the steaming fabric over the slice in his flesh."That was only the first day you were missing. What happened then? Why did it take so long to get back?"

"In the Riddermark, you learn early on how to use the stars as a guide. Everything looks the same when you're out in the prairies and there aren't any land markers to tell you where you are. Down here, the stars are completely different. We got lost and turned around so many damn times I lost count. After a while we figured it out, and rode all of yesterday and today."

"So how did you get this?" she asked, hand hovering over the leg.

Eomer moped the sweat beading on his forehead with a sleeve. "One of those scimitars stuck me point first. Then they pulled me out of the saddle." His fingers drew back the linen of his shirt revealing the deep blues and blacks of what was obviously a large patch of severe bruising on his right shoulder from where he had hit the ground.

"_They_ pulled _you _out of the saddle? I thought you were a better fighter than that!"

"Well, there were four of them and only one of me," he bit back sharply.

"And nobody came to help?"

"Not right away."

Explicitly for his benefit, Loti let out a sound of annoyance. "This is the perfect example of why you need to ride with someone who carries the King's Banner! Then your men would know where you are!"

"Do I look like the kind of pompous ass that rides around drawing attention to himself?" His temper was like the early stages of a grass fire, unpredictable and flaring in spots. "Look at me! I'm six and a half feet tall with blonde hair. I'm not exactly inconspicuous here! If al Din's men had known it was me, I'd have more than just a cut leg and some bruises!" This time it was Eomer who made the noise of annoyance.

Knowing Eomer as she did, Loti let the subject drop, instead choosing to gently blot the pustulant ooze from the wound with a corner of the hot towel and listen to the distinctive bustling of steel clad men in the night.

"How are you feeling?" she wondered, feeling him tense under her touch.

"Fine, I guess," he admitted, reluctantly. "How did you learn how to do this?"

Her mouth rounded in half wistfulness. "First by watching, then by doing. I don't like to see suffering…generally," she added half under her breath, remembering how badly she had once wanted the man before her to suffer.

"Somehow I believe that," he said.

Glancing up, she saw a strange mix of curiosity and pain clouding his face, but nowhere could she find mockery. His fingers, dirty and caked black by blood around the cuticles, cupped hers, long, slender and wetly crimson. She didn't pull away.

"You have the hands for healing."

She hiccupped a nervous giggle as he gave her back the hand. "I always wanted to be a healer, when I was younger. When I was older, well…" she shrugged one shoulder, not looking at him, "They would send me to spy at the army camps. There wasn't always a lot to do so when I had time, I would go to the healing tents and watch the healers or fetch water or herbs or whatever. Eventually, I began to change dressings and stitch wounds."

"I thought you told me men of the Haradrim didn't like to be touched by unclean women."

"They don't," Loti replied, "but a man who has something to live for isn't always particular. I'm going to rinse your leg now. It's going to hurt."

"I know," he said and nodded, lips pursed together tightly.

From the ground, she took the bottle of raw grain alcohol. The musical gurgle the liquor made as it purled clear and benign from the mouth of the bottle was markedly different than the sounds Eomer made when it struck his gaping raw flesh. He cried out at first, not that she could blame him, then leaned back making little gasping sounds and breathing like a bellows. Grain alcohol on an open wound was intensely stinging at the best, an excruciating torture at the worst. After sloshing some of the liquid on a square of linen, she gently sponged the edges of the injury as a preventative against further infection. He drew back, gritting his teeth and bit his lip but remained, otherwise, calm.

"You never talk about yourself," Eomer prompted, fishing for more once the pain dissipated enough for him to speak without the help of colorful expletives.

Leaving both sponge and bottle behind, Loti rose swiftly from the chair, crossing to the desk were the bottles of ointments and torn strips of linen lay. "That's because there is nothing to tell," she answered in a short, impersonal way.

Selecting a green glass jar with a cork stopper, she popped the top and slathered a layer of the red tinted oil known as Ointment of Chase-devil on the bandage. With some fore thought, Loti loaded the tray with several other supplies and returned to her patient, setting the tray on the bed within easy reach. She sat again and, using her finger, rubbed some of the ointment around the outside of the wound.

"What's that for?" he asked, the bottle of medicinal whiskey held in mid air, half way to his lips.

"It will help with the infection." _I hope_, she thought pessimistically.

"You're not going to stitch it?"

She shook her head, cleaned her fingers on the towel draped over her lap and reached for a stone mortar and pestle and a few peeled cloves of garlic. The lines and shadowed hollows in her face were fixed determinedly in concentration as she leaned back in the chair and set to work grinding the garlic into a paste.

"No. The cut's been open for too long and it's dirty, so I can't do it now. I want to make sure it's completely clean and watch it in case the infection worsens. If this is all it takes to clear it up, good. If not," she paused in her explanation to look him dead in the eye, "we'll try something else." Loti knew this did not sound reassuring, but she also didn't want him subdued by any false notions. "I don't want to do anything drastic if I don't have to. It could cripple you. Permanently."

His pale blue eyes broke from the honesty reflected in hers, coming to rest somewhere over her head. She knew he had seen wounds from battle and other types of accidents before. Eomer was well aware of what drastic measures might need to be taken to save a man's life.

The smell of crushed garlic wafted through the air, rich and earthy. He wrinkled his nose. The Rohirrim regarded garlic as a poison so vile just smelling it might cause instant death.

"Does it cause you much pain?" she asked, making scratching sounds with the pestle.

"I've had worse," he said gruffly, and quickly lifted the hem of his shirt exposing the ugly slash across his abdomen.

She kept her tone of voice calm, in control. "How did that happen?"

The line of his mouth softened into a smile. "I was young and foolish."

"How absolutely shocking."

"Maybe it was a duel. Over a woman."

"Ha!" Loti let out, "If I know one thing about you, it's that you don't need to fight over women."

He agreed, and rocked back and forth in the chair, scratching an itch on his back.

"It was the first real battle I was ever in. And I had all the answers. Nobody could tell me anything. One of the village girls was giving me a—" he bit off the rest of what he was about to say and shrugged, "Well, let's just say she was making me welcome when we got attacked by orcs in the middle of the night. Too make a long story short, I wasn't wearing much of anything when I went running into the fight. Orc caught me from here to here," he traced the grooved scar from ribs to navel, "I jumped back just time or the fucker would have split me wide open."

He stopped talking, but Loti could sense the strain in him, the desire to say more, to confess. Confess he should, she thought, if only to lighten his spirit, face his demons. A man shouldn't face death burdened with a heavy heart.

She kept her eyes focused on her work, grinding, pounding. Grinding. Pounding.

"I remember laying there in the grass staring up at the sky in a pool of my own blood wondering why I didn't feel anything. I thought if anything, my balls should be sore. Dying men don't feel pain, though… I'm sure you know that. When they found me, they thought I was dead. I should have been, but it was the infection that nearly did kill me. I hurt so bad I didn't really care if I lived or died. That's when I stopped being afraid…Of dying."

Loti waited for him to say more, but he did not. Apparently, he had reached the edge of what he was willing to talk about.

Quickly and with her customary efficiency, she scooped the mashed garlic from mortar with her fingers, packed the wound with it and fashioned a pair of butterfly bandages with the help of the some small linen strips and powdered gum arabic, a plant based adhesive made into a paste with water in order to securely bind the fabric to the skin.

So, having done all she could for Eomer's leg, Loti turned to the less serious laceration on his forehead.

"Tell me—" she began hesitantly, seeking something more trivial to discuss, "Tell me about your sister." They sat very close now, his bad leg wedged between her legs as she swabbed with the whiskey soaked pad. He had a good sized knot above his temple, bulging in unmasculine shades of purples and pinks.

"Mmm." This cryptic noise was more like a growl, but wasn't from the sting of the alcohol.

Eomer spoke little of his sister, except in the telling of childhood stories around the campfire, or in answer to a companion's polite inquiry into the state of the lady's health. Letters from the Lady Eowyn came frequently, usually several times a week, and not all were joyfully received by her brother. Always secured with green wax, imprinted with the seal of Rohan's Royal House and arced with the graceful, looped handwriting her brother lacked, the tone of his sister's letters elicited a range of emotions from Eomer. Sometimes he would sit at his desk chuckling to himself, his hand concealing a smile as he read. Other times, he paced the length of the tent, scowling, snapping through multiple sheets of paper until, finally, he was unable to read anymore. Then he would scrunch the sheets into one crumpled ball and whip them into the brazier where the paper would ignite with a _whoosh_ spewing a shower of red and orange sparks.

The vague answer to her question became clearer as she reached for the small, curved gold suture needle already strung with cat gut. "She a stubborn, obstinate, persistent, domineering, overbearing pain in my ass," he described, quite unflatteringly. Obviously, her last letter hadn't, gone over too well. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning away the evil spirits," she replied, whisking the needle and thread through a clean linen sponge soaked in alcohol. "Don't change the subject."

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know? Something nice, she is your sister!"

It was necessary to scoot forward in her chair to be as close to Eomer as possible. Unfortunately, this meant his knee pressed firmly into the juncture of her thighs, a thing Loti found extremely distracting.

"I thought you liked the man she's marrying. Hold still now."

He sat perfectly ridged, his eyes rolled up to watch her work. She pinched the skin at the top of the cut to lessen some of the pain, then the needle dipped in and out, the metal winking gold sparks and blood in the candlelight while the cat gut thread slid as smoothly as silk under the skin; all done in one neat, fluid motion.

"Faramir?" His eyebrow folded down over one eye at the initial prick. "He's fine, I guess, for a Gondorian," he added. "I like him well enough."

This laconic off handedness was, in fact, very telling about his feelings for the man who would be his brother in law. Eomer didn't hand out compliments easily. He must like the man very much, indeed.

She said, "Eothain doesn't seem to care for him."

He said, "Argh! Eothain. What does he know," quite grumpily.

"So what's the problem?"

His chest expanded, then contracted, long and deeply, in a sigh of male frustration. "She's becoming just like the others. Telling me I need to settle down, get married. I think she's spent too much time in Gondor!"

The skin under her hands was becoming hot again and damp with perspiration. She skimmed a rolling bead of sweat from the hollow of his temple with her thumb, ready to defend the absent Eowyn. "She loves you, Eomer. I'm sure she just wants to see you happy."

Eomer harrumphed somewhat indignantly.

"Don't you want to get married someday?" she wondered, hoping she sounded casually indifferent. But she wasn't. Loti didn't know why she had asked, didn't know why she needed to know, didn't know why her heart felt suddenly stretched with anxiety. Perhaps it was her need as a woman to see him as a man capable of love and monogamously intimate commitment. Or, more likely, it was a streak of jealously and hatred for some unknown woman who wouldn't see him as she saw him, wouldn't appreciate him for the complex man he was.

"Yes, someday. I…always wanted a big family." This unsolicited information was as shocking for its admission as it was for its truth. "I told you we were little when my folks died and we lived with my uncle. He was like a father and Theodred, he was like an older brother. But 'like'… it's not the real thing."

"No," she said softly, "I'm sure it's not."

"What about you? What do you want?"

What did she want? Her fine eyebrows rose in mild astonishment. Truly, he was the only person to ever ask her that.

"You said it yourself. I am unclean," she sighed, snipping the suture thread with a tiny pair of scissors and setting aside the needle, "Who would want me?"

Taking up the ointment bottle again she smeared a finger of oil over the fresh stitches to ward off potential infection and as a way to keep both skin and sutures supple.

Eomer eyed her dubiously, as if she'd just grown a set of antlers, but answered her rhetorical question with certainty. "Virginity isn't important."

She scoffed in a derisive and most unlady like way. "Of course you would think that! You're a man!"

Cleaning her hands on the towel, Loti rose with haste from her seat, brushing past him, but she didn't move fast enough. His hand caught her arm, stopping her from flying by.

"Do you really think it matters to a man who loves you?"

Eomer was a man who, at any given moment, wore many masks. But in this moment, slightly fevered, red eyed and heavy lidded with exhaustion, his multi faceted face and his complex expressions were stripped from him entirely, leaving him exposed. The grimness and disagreeability she was so used to seeing was replaced by compassion and infinite tenderness. Whatever she had been expecting when Eomer grabbed her arm, it had not been this. Underneath all his bullshit, all his snapping, his stubbornness, his explosive temper, this was who Eomer really was, deep down inside. He was nothing more than a pussy cat.

In an instant, though, his eyes hardened, his posture resumed it normal upright stiffness, and the vulnerable, fluffy kitten morphed back into the lion, fierce and ever on guard. His gaze fell away as did his hand and only then did Loti let out the breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding, her face burning with a blush. Whatever had passed between them had, in a split second, fanned the burgeoning flames of her attraction. Never before has she felt such twisting knots in her stomach, or such an unexplainable fluttering in her chest, like the beating of dove's wings. Eomer was red, too, from chest to hairline. Was it only fever, or had he felt the jolt of it, too?

Gathering her wits about her, Loti piled her bottles and instruments onto the tray and fled to the safety of the desk, leaving Eomer to the restorative properties of the whiskey bottle.

"I have some friends. Good men. If you'd like, I'll introduce you to them when we go home," he offered, coolly conversational.

"You would do that for me?"

Eomer twisted part way in his chair, meeting her eye briefly with a sincere nod of the head before turning back. "Yes, of course."

"I would like that," Loti answered, "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

When he spoke this time, there was a definite smile in his voice. "I got kicked a pretty good one in the stones, if you'd like to come over and rub them for me."

With a snap, the towel slapped him across the back of his head.

"Ow!" he cried, still smiling and massaging the offended portion of his scalp.

"You," she ordered, trying to suppress her giggles, "take off those pants right now!"

Relaxing blissfully into the chair, he began fumbling eagerly with the laces of his britches. "Ah," he sighed, "that's the best thing I've heard in three days! Help me out over here, will you?"

This time it was her hand that ricocheted off the back of his head.

As it was, he did need help undressing and together they managed to wiggle him unmanfully out of the blood stiffened wool britches. The shirt, wet, dirty and thoroughly smelly, he had no trouble removing.

Seeing him naked was nothing new. Touching him while he was naked gave her a thrill that zinged right through her fingertips and straight up her backbone. The bandaging of this thigh went smoothly since everything was prepared in advance, and the pain he was experiencing earlier seemed to be subsiding, whether from the Chase-devil ointment or the whiskey, it was hard to tell.

He stood then with her help and washed the dust of the desert from his body using the still steaming kettle while Loti tidied away the medical supplies. Surreptitiously, she watched. His body was bruised and beaten in other spots, although the shoulder was the worst. He must be incredibly sore, Loti decided. If he was, he would never admit it; Eomer's pride was as tough a cured hide. The whiskey would relieve most of his pain for now, but in the morning, she would steep some willow bark into a nice pain relieving tea and rub him down with lavender oil. No doubt he would enjoy a massage way more than he should.

Her eyes slid over the taught muscles of his back and buttocks to his long athletic legs and the curved round of his bandaged thigh. Underneath the bandage and poultice of Chase-devil was a suppurating infection and the early signs of the poisoning of his blood. How many other evils were festering under there? Evils that she couldn't see, complications she couldn't or wouldn't be able to do anything about until it was too late. Lockjaw, a twitching, spasming, lingering agony that left the muscles of the body contracted and arched in an unrelenting ridged tetany. The only release from its seizuring clutches was death. Another ghastly complication was gangrene, the discolored, nasty smelling, putrefaction of flesh that rotted and wasted the muscle around the site of the injury; the end result being amputation of the limb and possible death. In Eomer's case, she thought, certain death! Loti has also heard of virulent kinds of infections that ate away at and dissolved the skin and tissues of a victim. Again, the end result was death. And to make matters worse, all of these possibilities displayed the same early symptoms, fever and chills, swelling and redness at the injury site. It would be impossible to tell what was happening or how to treat it until the disease progressed and became more identifiable. But by that time there would be very little she or even the most expert healer could do to save Eomer's life.

Loti shook herself, trying to regain her composure. It would do him no good to let emotion and hysterics rule her mind.

His big, broad, naked body was turned to her in half profile and he seemed very much like a bronzed male nude, flawless and sculpted to absolute perfection. He was in the prime of his life, lithe, with a strength that belied his long, sinewy stature, rugged and handsome in a way which words could never fully describe. He was brutality and mercy, taciturnity and charm. And he was big, so erotically, ruthlessly big. Every glorious, naked, candle lit inch of him enhanced and exaggerated in comparison to an averaged sized man.

He was alive, she concluded, watching as the wet wash cloth swiped a path across his chest, leaving the curly blonde hairs wetly glistening. Her fingers twitched with the desire to help him, to feel his smooth supple skin under her hand and follow the trail of soft dark blonde hairs to see what she might discover. The tent smelled of him, hot and acrid with the stink of a man unwashed for many days lying heavily over the top of the more faint scents of botanicals and blood. Catching her assessing his male nakedness, dreamy eyed and breathless, Eomer winked lewdly and said, not without humor, "If you like what you see, come and help me out. I'll let you wash all the parts I can't reach."

Oh, he was alive alright, and Loti was determined to keep him that way.

XXX

It was well past midnight when Loti pulled aside the tent flap to check on her patient, a slice of gray moon light spilling over his sleeping form. He was curled up like a shrimp facing away from her, the sheet rumpled and loose about his hips, his honey colored hair all in a tangle.

Soft footed, she tip toed to his side, little bits of sand squishing between her bare toes, anxious to check on his condition. Loti hadn't been able to sleep. She had lain on her cot for hours, rolling and unrolling like a badly spun top; tossing off the covers and pulling them back on in a fretful agitation of worry. What if his fever got worse? What if he had stopped breathing? What if the dressing fell off, or the bleeding started again? What if he needed food or water? Damn! Had she remembered to put the chamber pot back under the bed in case he needed it?

Her worry had been just that, worry, and Eomer rested comfortably, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic peace. The innocence of him when he did sleep was childlike and serene, all his burdens and cares set aside, dreams and fancies filling his head instead of numbers, strategy, death and self torture.

Loti smiled, tenderness for him filling her heart, tenderness she never in a thousand lifetimes thought she would feel for this man. A lock of hair lay limp and damp in the crook between neck and shoulder, and she lifted it away, dropping it to knot and tangle with its fellow strands on the pillow. Her hand fell to the swelling curve of his shoulder, the muscle beneath hard and round even in sleep. His skin was hot to the touch and oddly moist, but it was a different sort of heat, not the normal kind of warmth produced by a healthy man, neither was it the sleep induced warmth of healing. It was a harsh, intense heat that made the tips of her fingers tingle. Eomer's temperature was rising as his body fought the infection. That, to an extent, was good. Eomer was a young, strong, healthy man. His body might be able to throw off the infection without outside interference from Loti. If not…

It wasn't something she liked to think about. If his fever ran too high and she was unable to reduce it, then he would die. And there was not a thing anyone could do about it. Nursing was what Eomer needed now to keep him cool, comfortable, and well hydrated. With a bit of luck and some of that Rohirric stubbornness she had acquired from spending so much time around these men, Loti thought Eomer just might pull through. But might was a far cry from certainty.

Her fingers trailed the muscular hollow of his upper arm to his forearm, lightly tracing the distended bluish veins that pulsed steadily under the sun toughened skin. His arms were those of a sword wielder, long of reach, agile, brawny but not bulky, with wrists and forearms as sturdy as dried oak wood. She dallied, enjoying the feeling of life under her touch, appreciating the sheer size and manliness of him when a big, battered hand rose up unseen from the bed clothes and clamped around her wrist.

"I don't need you making over me like some child," the man under her hand said in a very mean tone of voice. Evidently not sleeping, Eomer rolled half way over, staring up at her.

Loti's face remained impassive, expressionless as a stone wall. "You may still die," she said flatly, hoping this sounded as sinister to him as it did to her.

He released the hold on her wrist, his eyes suddenly a twinkle in the moon's pale gray light. "Then do a dying man one last favor and come to bed with me." The chuff filled mattress made a soft rustling sound as he patted the open spot next to him.

"Hmm," she murmured dryly, pressing her palm to Eomer's brow, cheek and throat, "You must be more fevered than I thought if you think that's ever going to happen."

"You don't want to?" he smiled, his voice sleep roughened and deep.

"You can't."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I can. Let me show you." Lifting the edge of the rough cotton sheet, he made for her hand again. Somehow, Loti managed to snatch it back.

Briskly, she asked, "Do you want me to find you someone?"

"You've got a high opinion of my cock to think it could get up after what I've been through!" Eomer eased onto his back, hiking the bed clothes to his chest and Loti saw the first faint shiver of a chill ripple through him. "I don't think I could just now."

"Sleep then," she said, in her most reassuring voice, "If you need something I'll be nearby."

"Hen."

Loti stopped, nearly out the door. He could only be speaking to her.

"Reconsider?"

"No," she said, struggling not to smile.

"Can't blame a man for trying." Eomer didn't try to hide his smile, wide and full of straight teeth, or the teasing in his eyes.

The thought came to Loti that this was, maybe, the first time she had ever seen Eomer for who he truly was. Not a warrior or a womanizer, not the commander of an army or one of the Rohirrim. Neither was he the destroyer of lives, families, or dreams, the killer of her brother, or the closest living relative of her beloved Theodred who was lost forever to eternity. Lying there injured, beaten, and bruised, she saw him in the simplest of ways; only as himself, only as a man.

There was a part of her inside, shut down and long dead, that flared to life like a candle lit from the striking of flint to steel. The flame was warmth and comfort, spreading now out of control like a wildfire, the tip of the flame tickling the underside of her heart. Should she reconsider so she could slip naked into his bed, feel the course hairs of his chest and the heat of his skin against her bare breasts and belly? His body making love to hers, the weight of him between her spread thighs, the upward thrust inside her body as he brought himself closer to climax, tasting his lips and mouth and the saltiness of the sweat in the hollows of his throat. Her body violated, severed, owed with the desperation to feel connected to another living soul…to feel worthy of love.

But all she could do was smile, say, "Good night," and turn to go.

"Loti." He stopped her once again, using the sharp tone of a military commander, "Don't come back. There're others…. I think you should go and find them."

Leave him unattended? Nonsense! The other injured men would likely have been taken to the healing tents to be administered to and treated by men who were much more skilled in the healing arts than she. If she did go over there, she stood a better chance of getting in the way than actually doing any good.

Of course, Eomer would need to be seen by a real healer, Loti being only a novice at such things. She added 'Bring healer' to her mental checklist and left Eomer to his sleep without another word.

XXX

In the morning, she returned, bearing a tray piled high and crammed to over flowing with tea set, a bowl of half moistened oatmeal drowning in butter and salt, biscuits, chucks of cheese, sausages, toast, milk, ham, fruit, bottles of various dried herbs and ointments, an aromatic broth—possible turtle-a stack of letters from an early morning messenger, and a rusty, old horse shoe given to her by one of Eomer's officers, to be placed under his pillow for good luck and as a talisman against evil miasmas. Loti thought the protective properties of the horse shoe unlikely and over exaggerated, but, possibly Eomer did not, and it couldn't hurt in any case. Whether help came from actual science or superstition, Eomer was going to need all he could get.

Easing backside first through the tent flaps, Loti spun around to find Eomer sitting on the edge of the camp bed, head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, sheet draped around his hips. He was up, that was good. He also looked the color of buttermilk left to sit out too long, a sort of yellowish, white with green moldy bits floating about the edges.

His head snapped up, following her as she crossed the tent.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

The tray was unthinkably heavy and Loti plunked it gratefully onto his desk, pushing aside papers, ledgers and other various whatnots in the process.

"Bringing you tea. Here, drink this. Do you hurt much?" She thrust the mug into his face, pert little nose twitching at the woody smell of it, then pressed the back of her hand to the plane of his temple and cheek. The blood poisoning seemed to be progressing slowly, after all, Eomer was large, strong and very healthy, but something was wrong, something she couldn't put her finger on.

Her fingers moved automatically to the column of his neck, feeling. "Eomer, are you feeling alright?"

Yes, the glands in his neck were swollen, but that was to be expected, he did have an infection, after all.

Eomer shrunk away from these attentions. "I thought I told you to go find the others," he said with an edge.

"I told you, I'm bringing you tea." In fact, steeping the willow bark tea had taken nearly two hours. "You have to eat something, too. There's oatmeal…" and continued cataloguing his edible options.

"Loti," he interrupted, calmer now but in a way that insisted she listen. There were lines of strain on his face, through his forehead, between his brows, and tension in the bunched muscles of his jaw and the lines of his lips.

"I think you should go."

"Why?" she wondered lightly, nibbling on a stolen sausage.

Again, he said nothing, only stared, those soft blue eyes full of sorrow. A rising shiver of dread turned her knees to water.

"Why, Eomer?" she asked for the second time, choking on a lump of fear lodged in her throat.

His eyes flickered to the doorway, but not back to meet her gaze, falling instead somewhere on the ground at his feet. "I think you should go."

Dazedly, almost mechanically, Loti put down the sausage, took two steps and fled, dashing through the doorway, brown braids bouncing.


	14. Chapter 14 Fever Dreams

A/N: Hello again! Sorry this took so long to post but April was a crazy month and I had a week or two of writer's block after I read the book Game of Thrones. If you haven't read it, you must! It is fantastic! Or you could watch the HBO show.. It does follow the book very closely with only slight deviations of interpretation. Theofrid, who I've completely fallen in love with, is sort of based on Khal Drogo, if anyone knows what I'm talking about. The dream sequence in here is adapted from a scene in Drums of Autumn by Diana Gabaldon. Hers is 'woke and slept'. Just wanted to point that out. I'm thinking the next chapter won't be that long... but then again, it is me... so no real guarantees there! Thanks for reading and please review!

* * *

Late July, 3020

To Lady Eowyn of Rohan from EomerKing

_My dearest Wynnie,_

_I have had a most unfortunate incident. I can hear you in this moment scolding and chastising, saying I am exactly like Father, but given my penchant for understatement, I thought it best if I write now since it would be most difficult to do so if I am dead. I jest, but my injury is serious. I do not wish to bore you with the details of the events prior to and after I sustained said injury (I will do so at another time) although, I wish for you to know that I will contrive not to die, at least not until you've had the opportunity to brain me with a rolling pin, ale pot, frying pan or some other such device. Doutbless, it would do no good._

_That topic having been thus addressed, good sister, I wish to beg a favor of you. Do you remember me telling you of the Haradrim man, Asif? He and his family (yes, all thirty seven of them) arrived upon my doorstep in the middle of the night fearing for their lives. I have allowed them entrance along with hospitality, but this is only a temporary solution. They cannot stay here, it is no place for women and children, nor can I in good conscience turn them out. His bravery and assistance to our cause has been most laudable. _

_Therefore, I feel it is necessary to relocate the family and reestablish their lives and residency somewhere in the north. I will be sending them to the The Crossing and placing them into the care of our good man, Elfhelm, from whence he will make shift to see them safely to you. I understand this is an imposition to both your kindness and your time as I am sure you are busy preparing for your nuptials, but there is no one I trust more in this endeavor than you, sister._

_I mentioned earlier that I wish to beg a favor of you. After careful consideration, I realize this is untrue; I wish to beg two favors of you. I hope this is not too presumptuous, although, I think your generosity is up to the task. _

_The good man's young daughter has been brutalized. I, myself, have never seen such an attack (and hope I never do as I would not be able to stand idle and watch atrocities committed on innocents. Men who perpetrate such violence on women are the lowest of cowards), but can imagine the damage and lasting effects it leaves on a woman's psyche. I cannot help but feel this is somehow my fault. I do not consider myself a cruel or unfeeling man (a little stern in the face, mayhap) and I desired to see her this morn, if only to give her words of comfort, small and inconsequential as they might now be. She screamed and cowered upon sight of me, although this may have been a reaction to my unusually barbarous appearance. Her father told me she does not eat, does not sleep, does not speak. She has withdrawn into herself and I fear wishes for a relief you and I, dear sister, are only too familiar with—death. I thought to ask Loti to speak with the girl as they are of a similar age and she the only woman in my camp. Her kindness of heart and gentleness of nature surprises me at times. I have often feared my secretary has been violated in the same manner and hoped she could give the girl the comfort I could not and some sort of reassurance or empathy. She refused though, and with a vehemence I have rarely seen in her since the days of her conversion, rather confirming my suspicions. I fear I have behaved in a most ungentlemanly and beastly manner towards her at times. Perhaps I am as she once implied, a monster. I should apologize. _

_Please forgive my melancholy; my last days have been trying. _

_I have deviated from the topic about which I write and the service of which I ask you to perform. I would ask you to counsel the girl, help her in only the way I know another woman, you, can. Death will not save her; it will not unburden her soul, as it is only a release from the body. Eowyn, see her spirit safe or she will walk forever as a ghost between the worlds of the living and the dead. _

A droplet of sweat fell on the paper, puckering it and blurring some of the ink. Eomer swiped a hand across his forehead, the skin beneath his palm shockingly hot. There was still tea in the pot, smelling strong and fragrant, but he wasn't sure if hot willow bark tea on a hot day was the best thing for a man with a fever. The tea's pain relieving properties did seem to be taking the edge off the stings in his leg. Now with every beat of his heart, it felt like glass splinters being shoved into his leg instead of red hot knives.

His eyes fell conveniently to the bottle of whiskey on the corner of the desk. Without a second thought, he pulled the cork and splashed a little—well, maybe a little more than a little—into the cup. He gulped a mouthful, tasting the sharp, bitter cheer of it, feeling the perfumed steam permeate his insides and rise up into his sinuses. The shirt he wore was damp with perspiration and he pulled it away from his chest, billowing it in and out to move some air around his body. Ugh, he smelled terrible.

He twiddled the quill between his fingers wondering what else to say. Should he mention the mysterious Gondorian man?

_I wish to mention another issue to you. I don't have many details; in fact, I know almost nothing, but feel it worth discussing in any case. There is a man from Gondor, I know not his name, from whence he came nor even his appearance but he is the man supplying and possibly even producing the black powder I seek to keep out of the hands of our enemies. I do not presume to know what is in the heart or the mind of a man who betrays his country. Ambition, influence, greed, power? Men are weak creatures and even I am not immune to the want to these things. _

_I do not wish to cause you worry by mentioning what little I know. I would also expect you to discuss this with Faramir and tell him I will write separately to him of what I know, my thoughts and fears. _

_Thank you for letting me unburden my mind. It is times like this when I greatly miss the presence of your counsel. I or someone will write soon to let you know of my fate. Until then, I remain _

_Your most affectionate brother, _

_E_

Eomer signed with a flourish, sanded, sealed the missive with green wax, and, with a groan, got to his feet. Someone had cut him a large walking stick and he regarded it with some scorn. Using it, though, would make him feel like that old gray—no, wait, he was white now—bugger, Gandalf. So instead, hobbling in the most undignified of ways, he left the stifling confines of his tent on a mission. The day was fine, bright and hot, with only a few shreds of clouds scattered across a sky made of blue crystal. There was a hot southern wind this morning—thank the gods—and it ruffled the fabric of his shirt and loose linen britches, drying his sweat and leaving him feeling crusty and unclean.

He limped a few hundred feet from his tent when the distressed squawking of hens caught his attention. The young Haradrim lad whom Eomer had met several days before, and now known to be Asif's grandson, was chasing a squadron of hens, skipping along behind and assisting them into flight with a well placed foot. A truncated ba-kaw and a plump reddish body soared through the air in an explosion of feathers and laughter from the possessor of the flight assisting foot. In the next moment, Eomer's legs were surrounded by a flurry of bobbing necks and flapping wings as the chickens scattered in disorganized, zig zagging panic.

The damn hens wouldn't lay for a week after this!

His hand snatched the boy by his grubby little collar as he ran past, practically lifting him off his poultry punting feet. Scowling in disapproval, he bent, peering into the boy's face.

"Na-ah," he scolded, waggling a finger in admonishment. "Don't chase the chickens."

The little boy stared up at him oblivious, happy eyed and totally unconcerned about what Eomer was going to eat for breakfast come tomorrow morning.

"Where's your grandda?" he asked.

The boy looked at him perplexed, said something convoluted in his native tongue, giggled in his little boy way and then he clapped both hands on Eomer's face, patting him several times on the cheeks. He did his best imitation of a gluttonous chipmunk, puffing out his cheeks so the boy could smash them with a sound like_ pffft_.

"Mmm," he answered. Better to start out with something easier.

He put a finger to his chest, poking. "Eomer. My name is Eomer."

Appearing to understand, the boy repeated, "Aero-mir!" and proceeded to slap Eomer's cheeks repeatedly in self gratification.

"Close enough," Eomer concluded, "Me, Eomer. You, what's your name?"

He turned the finger on the boy, jabbing him in the belly gently enough to elicit a laugh.

"Me, Eomer. You…?" His eyebrow arched in question.

"Naji," the boy replied and squished Eomer's face, distorting his features.

Naji's mother couldn't be far away, female voices floated in the air somewhere nearby. He spun Naji by the shoulders, shooing him in the direction of the voices with a light slap on the boy's bottom and a warning about what would happen the next time Eomer caught him booting the biddies. He stood for a moment, watching Naji's scrawny little legs whirr beneath him like a water wheel as he ran off behind a tent.

His thigh hurt something terrible. It was as though the big bones of his leg were melting, liquefying like ice by the fever that burning within him. Despite his ego's protestations, he regretted leaving the walking stick behind. Finally, with all his Rohirric courage summoned, he drew himself up and trudged on. There was one more thing he needed to do today.

XXX

He found her in the healing tents; one of the men responsible for the caring of the sick and injured pointed him in her direction. She had been crying, her face was puffy and blotchy, and her eyes ringed by dark circles and grief. Knowing her as he did, it was likely she had been awake the whole night caring for her patient, assisting the healers, seeing to the comfort of others, to the detriment of her own.

His throat was tight; it was difficult to swallow as he had navigated between the cots containing mildly sick or injured men. It was a thing he had done a hundred times, visiting the sick or dying; in hastily erected healing tents on battlefields or in sick wards or great houses of healing. He stopped to speak a word to each man, inquire how he felt, to thank a man for his bravery or his loss, to offer condolences. Thankfully there were only a handful of men recovering in the healing tent today, some only suffering from an acute attack of food poisoning, but it didn't lighten his heart any as he picked his way through the beds. At least one man here would die.

Many times he had broken the news to wives. Told mothers and sisters and daughters what every woman dreaded to hear, lived in terror of facing; that their men would not be coming home. It was part of his duties, the worst part. Even as lowly third Marshal of the Mark he had accepted the necessity of doing it, but that hadn't made the doing any easier. And now…

Now, he was the King, the man solely responsible for sending another man to his death. Deciding who, when and where they might die. Lives, futures, families were held in his hands. Eomer wiped his palms against the fabric of his pants, feeling not sweat, but the blood of his countrymen, shed on his account.

But he could not be seen as weak, either, and he was certainly no coward. He was as barbaric as any of his ancestors, never asked a man to do what he would not and was well aware men were what they were; violent, angry, and vengeful. They would find ways to fight, things to die for if he did not give them a purpose or an outlet for those frustrations.

A wooden screen had been erected along the far wall in order to provide a modicum of privacy to the dying man within. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose up and stood on end, sending a shiver down his spine. For the young man Red, he of the given name Glullyn, death was near at hand. Eomer could smell it, malodorous and putrid as the belly wound festered, emptying the contents of bile and bowel into the abdominal cavity, his young body so clearly ravaged by the painful aches, the fever and chills of persistent infection. He lay colorless under his sunburn and inert, the only sign he still lived, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the innocuous twitching of eyelids. Loti dabbed fastidiously at Glullyn's cracked and bleeding lips with a wet cloth. To give him a drink would be to kill him instantly. Standing there, Eomer wondered if that wasn't the most humane thing to do…

"Hello," he said softly, his voice husky, "May I join you?"

She gave what passed for a nod and he approached, grabbing a nearby stool and lowering himself onto it as carefully as possible next to her.

For lack of anything better to say, Eomer asked, "How is he?"

The rag went back to soaking and she shook her head, wordless. He didn't have long then.

"You should have told me," she snapped, her voice scratchy with exhaustion.

"I told you last night to come here."

"I should have been here," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

There it was, man's own instrument of torture, guilt. Eomer had only a vague understanding of the healing arts, but every soldier had at least a little battlefield medicine. The only thing one could do for the victim of a belly wound was to make him as comfortable as possible. Best to devote one's time and energy to men who would not die.

"Hen…There's nothing you could have done. If you want to blame someone, blame me." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "My actions got him killed. His blood is on my hands. That's my burden to live with."

That made her mad. She gave him a look so scornful he felt momentarily ashamed and defensive.

"You bastard! How dare you take that away from him?" Her normally impeccable braids were coming loose and wispy strands of hair floated around her face so she looked much like a brown dandelion puff. She'd never looked so fierce, or so beautiful. "How dare you take away his honor like that? He is a warrior of Rohan. This is how he would choose to die, in battle. You didn't stick the knife in his belly! You should be proud of him, Eomer. Instead, you give him your pity? Go away if you can't do that. Dying well is all he had left."

Her eyes grew wide as he gripped her arm suddenly, firmly wrapping his fingers around it. The willowy muscles under his hand were taught with fear and grief. Hissing sharply though his teeth, Eomer dressed her down as if she were the most green of young soldiers.

"Yes, you're right; he is a warrior of Rohan. And you are a woman of Rohan! He shouldn't hear you wailing and carrying on like a mother with a dying baby. Treat him like the man he is, with dignity and respect. You disgrace him and yourself with your behavior! Cry and mourn for him when he is dead, not before then. He doesn't need your pity, either! Do you understand me?"

Loti wiggled and ripped her arm out of his hold, but not before her teeth bit into her bottom lip and she blinked, shedding heavy but silent tears that shone like diamond drops against the flush of her golden skin. Eomer's throat pained him still more, like he'd swallowed a bag of nails. His fingertips lightly brushed her cheeks, sweeping away the salty wetness of her pain.

How could she ever have been a killer?

"His pain will be over soon," he counseled, pushing her ridiculous sun painted bangs behind one ear, "It's yours that will linger on." It was a fact Eomer knew far too well and a consolation to know that one day, too, his own pain would come to an end.

She hiccupped a few times, took a ragged breath, and wiped her face with both hands, setting herself to rights.

"Come here," she demanded, sniffling, and picked up a long piece of green plant leaf, "Your nose…"

Quickly, Loti slid her finger through the plants juices, and, without even asking permission, started slathering the stuff all over his nose. It was slimy and strange at first but turned cool and soothing as it dried, eliminating some of the tight feeling of his skin and feverishness.

"It helps with the sunburn," she explained, unnecessarily, continuing to anoint him with the juice of the aloe plant along his cheeks and forehead. From the corner of his eye, Eomer saw an unnatural shininess to Glullyn's complexion. Apparently, he had been subject to her ministrations also. There was nothing that could be done for Glullyn, his fate was sealed, but no man would die so well cared for. Eomer could only hope when his time came that he would be treated similarly, aided peacefully, painlessly into darkness by the loving hands of a woman.

The still form on the bed stirred slightly and moaned.

"Is he in much pain?" asked Eomer.

She sighed deeply, an aloe slickened fingertip tracing a groove above his brow. "It's hard to tell, but, yes, I think so," she answered in low whisper.

Guiltily, she abandoned him, returning to Glullyn like a mother drawn to her cries of her child. The cloth was wrung out and laid upon his brow.

"Loti, you must do something for me."

She turned her face to look at him, interested.

He reached behind his back and pulled his knife, sheathed in its leather scabbard, from the waistband of his pants, and placed it next to Glullyn on the cot in full view.

Her eyes flickered from Eomer to the knife and back, confused.

"When he comes around, you must ask him if he would have me do it for him."

Her face drained of its color.

"No!" She refused, shaking her head, fists wrapped around and pulling on her long, brown braids. "He wouldn't… You won't!"

"He's not going to get better, hen. I would do it for him, if he asks."

"How is that not murder?" she wondered, observantly, cupping her elbows in self support.

"It's more merciful to speed a man along his way than to let him linger and die in agony. Call it ruthless compassion."

"Blessed are the merciful for they shall be shown mercy," she quoted, her sarcasm, unmistakable.

"You still think me a monster? A man of cruelty?"

It wasn't what he said, that scared Loti, but how he said it, so cold and collected, in a far more frightening way than any explosion of temper could. Ruthless compassion, indeed.

"Have you done this before?"

Part of him thought she didn't really want to hear the answer to her question. But he had never lied to her and wasn't about to begin now. Would she look at him differently if she knew the truth?

"Often enough," Eomer admitted. "It is not murder or killing and there is no shame in it. A man knows his own mind, if he is dying or can't be saved and he asks it of me, I have never said no. I am his king. I show both judgment and mercy in all things. You will ask him." The last part was said without any inflection. It was an order, not a request. Far better for those left behind if a man went quickly to his death. Once gone, grief and mourning would soon be replaced by healing.

She had either seen the way of it or was just too tired to argue any further because she agreed without another word.

With no real desire to make the long walk back to his tent—his leg burned like a hot poker was stuck in it—Eomer sat for a while longer, keeping vigil, watching her work.

"Are you feeling alright," she asked him out of the blue, pressing the backs of her finely boned fingers to his cheek, checking his temperature. "You're clammy and a little shaky. Should I get you a blanket?"

He hadn't really even noticed, but she was right, his muscles were beginning to twitch with the first signs of chills. His muscles weren't the only thing twitching. His cock, which had been too tired to realize the time of day this morning, stirred between his legs at her touch. The damn thing had a mind of its own! It was like an annoying friend, always popping up at the most inopportune times.

"You're a little pale," Loti observed.

Probably because all his blood was headed for parts south!

"I'm fine," he assured, but she was already off, rummaging around somewhere leaving him alone with the semi conscious Glullyn.

Eomer studied the fair red headed man intently, for man he was. To have called him anything else was derogatory and demeaning. Boys did not serve in his army; boys did not die for their king.

It was an unfortunate circumstance of life in the Riddermark, especially as of late. Boys became men, girls became women at the ages of thirteen or fourteen, expected to work the fields, tend the crops, the horses and the homestead, bring in the harvest, help with the children. Eomer himself had come to manhood at the age of eleven after the death of his father; an age too young to be called Lord of the Manor.

The dying made him uncomfortable and dead bodies gave him the heebeegeebees; a left over remnant of childhood trauma. They had made him look upon his father's body, told him he would always wonder unless he saw. He wished he hadn't. It was the first dead body he'd ever seen up close. The fault of his mother, no doubt. He had been a sheltered child. A mother would wish to shield her child from the harsh realities of life, but it hadn't been a blessing. The horror of seeing a father he loved, a man he worshipped struck down with such violence had left an indelible mark on his soul. Now, as a man fully grown he understood why they had done it; so he would learn to hate the enemy, see firsthand what they had taken from him, and accept that the same fate might someday be his. All men must die. Eothain's father had spoken those words, kneeling beside him that morning oh so long ago.

Eomer was a man of violence and of blood; had been born in it, lived in it, was certain he would die in it. He mourned for every man who had died under his command, his grief as unique and individual as the man. It was that grief that had kept him human. In lessons taught to him long ago by his uncle, he had learned the importance of preserving life. A man who forgot what death was, who squandered men's lives without cause or justification would have no men left to lead.

His men had suffered few casualties here, and for that he was grateful. Eomer had known the men killed some weeks ago, considered them friends, drank beer and played cards with them at the taverns in the Westfold. He had buried far too many friends, tenants, and members of his family not to be affected by death, not to know how long and undiscriminating its reach was. But this man in the bed he did not know, yet, he still felt the anguish of a dreams unfulfilled, of knowledge unlearned, of a future snuffed out like the flame of a candle between the fingers of the hand of death.

The warmth of the blanket and the safety of her arms came around him, settling his thoughts, cloaking his shoulders in something more than lambswool and her attention. If he let himself, Eomer would find security in those arms, would find himself again, that elusive part of him that walked in the light, that part of him she could pull from the dark.

And knowing that made it much harder to tell her what he must.

They sat close together almost touching at shoulder and hip and thigh.

"I'm sorry." It was wholly inadequate in light of the situation, but he didn't know where else to begin. "I shouldn't have kept you from him. It was wrong…to tell you what you could or couldn't do. I took away your freedom to choose for yourself. Doing that makes me no better than…"

The rest of the words died in his mouth. The urge to protect her, keep her swaddled at his side so no one would ever, ever hurt her again was overwhelming. But it was started and must be finished, no matter the cost to his own wants.

"You should make love to him," he finally said.

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. "But you said—"

"I know what I said before. This is what I'm telling you now." He cut her off with brusque impatience.

Her eyes were glimmering and bright with her inner turmoil. Cupping her chin so she could not look away, he explained. "It's all you can do for him, it's all a woman _can_ do. It will take away his pain and it will help ease him…to know you cared. He needs you to."

Images of Loti and Glullyn locked together in passionate embrace, their bodies naked and entwined, his cock wedged between her smooth, soft thighs both aroused and sickened him.

"Would you have me do it for you?" she whispered.

"Yes," he whispered back, coiled with need like a tightly wound spring, "I would."

Abruptly, Eomer got to his feet and left the tent, blocking out the stabbing agony in his leg, too aware of his roiling emotions, her warmth and safety left behind in a woolen heap on the ground.

XXX

Eomer was standing along the fence line, leaning on the split wood rails and feeding Firefoot the remains of his congealed oatmeal porridge from that morning, when his ears picked up the light shuffling of footsteps over the other sounds of the life in camp. Firefoot, besides possessing a temperament that would make even the most patient master of horse go berserk with frustration, was keenly sensitive to the intricacies of the human condition. The beast snorted explosively, whickered in recognition of the approaching visitor, nosed Eomer in the shoulder and trotted away, leaving him to converse privately.

The cadence of the footfalls was short, somewhat quicker than most, and soft. Bowl still in hand, he turned, already knowing who had sought him out. Loti's shoulders were hunched in dejection, and her body equal parts stiff and frail, like a stalk of wheat in a hail storm, ready to topple over at any second.

He was reminded of an old Elvish saying: _As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone. He is like a branch that is thrown away __and withers; such branches are picked up and cast into the oven…and his place will know him no more._

So, there had been no need of his help. Glullyn had found peace on his own.

"You should be eating that instead of feeding it to your horse," she reprimanded, clenching her teeth together and fighting back the tears that brimmed on her lower lashes, threatening to fall.

He tossed the bowl negligently in to a pile of hay and held out his arms. An instant later she flung herself into his embrace, burying her face against his chest.

"Oh, hen," he soothed, stroking her disreputable tangle of hair and slim line of her back, "I'm so sorry for it."

Her small hands fisted the fabric of his shirt front as she sobbed fiercely, almost silently against the white linen, wrinkling it terribly. He held her as tightly as she needed to be held, her body a dense, compact weight against his length, her breasts, small and round, pressed to his chest.

Women fascinated him, so many inconsistencies in such small bodies; strength and softness, ferocity and spitefulness mixed with love and compassion.

Eventually, the jag ebbed and she made wet, snotty noises, his shirt wet and cool with the moisture of her tears. Not having had the pleasure of a woman for so long made him acutely aware of her proximity, of her curves, her femininity, her vulnerability. Usually, the more pleasure he gained from women the less notice his body took, but today… He was straining, stiffening, unable to control his inappropriate urges or desires to ravish her quickly and thoroughly. The last thing he wanted was to be embarrassed, to have her think him insensitive and beastly, so he moved her away a little so she couldn't feel what was happening to him.

What was it about death and danger that roused him so? Was it the need to feel alive, to bring himself to the dizzying heights of pleasure before crashing down to earth in a tumble of feathers and broken wings? Or was it something older, more basic? The need to sow his seed and leave something behind, evidence he had existed, was capable and virile. Were women like men? Did they share the same needs and desires as men in the face of danger, with the evidence of mortality so close at hand? Would it be the same for her as it had been for him in the past? Would she say yes if he offered her the comfort of his body, a living thing to cling to in grief, a reminder of life?

His gnarled, ugly hands cupped her sweet, lovely face, thumbs smearing away the drops and trails of tears.

"Tell me what I can do for you?" he wondered aloud.

The sun burned low in the sky and so did Eomer, with fever and with lust. He knew what he wanted her to say and do; slip to her knees and take his cock into her mouth, ravish him with lips and tongue and teeth until completion. Better yet, he revised, he wished to throw up her skirts and take _her_ into his mouth, savoring her like a ripest, juiciest, most flavorful of peaches at the height of the harvest. Oh, harvest, yes, he would harvest; plow and sow and reap the reward.

And what a perfect ass he was for wanting such a thing!

She blinked out more tears that trickled down her face and she sniffed. "Would you mind…just holding me? Please? I—I…don't want to be alone. Not right now."

"No," he replied softly and smiled, lost in the depths of her bottomless blue eyes, "I wouldn't mind."

He clasped her to his chest again, not caring if she could feel any troublesome bulges, a savage tenderness lashing his heart, replacing any previous desire he had to bed her.

"It's different, isn't it," he said to the top of her head, smoothing her hair, "when you know the person. When you kill someone and don't know anything about them, they don't mean anything to you. But when you watch someone you care for die…" His words trailed off, parts of his past left unspoken.

Her head moved against his chest in understanding and he felt her chest expand and relax in a sigh under his hand.

"I know of his mother. I'll send word to her, tell her what happened, if it will make you feel better," he offered.

She never responded and so he continued to hold her. Horses cried out and whinnied in the distance, and a cool breeze, light as the scent of spring flowers, rustled his hair, but Eomer took notice of nothing, except Loti.

"Did you love him, then?"

She had stopped weeping for the most part but her sniffles were epidemic.

Talk of love reminded Loti of her father's book; poems of passionate yearning and undying devotion she had read and re-read hundreds, if not thousands of times in her loneliness. But love…? Respect, most defiantly, deep affection, caring, loyalty, trust… Those were certainly the foundations on which love was built, but…

If she had to ask, had she really loved him at all?

She held on to Eomer more tightly. "No," she said in a heartbroken admission, "not in the way I think he would have wanted me to. But I think he was the only friend I ever really had. Maybe in time I could've loved him like that…"

And that was the sad, awful truth of it. Loti hadn't loved him, not leastwise in the way he had deserved and wanted to be loved. For that she would be truly and forever sorry.

"I did care, though. I liked him a lot."

"You loved him in your own way, hen. You shouldn't worry. He knew that. When you do love someone, I think you'll probably know."

"Have you ever been in love?" she asked out of the blue, gazing up at him, chin propped on his chest.

He paused for a second before answering, thinking. "No. But I don't think anyone's ever been in love with me, though, either."

After a long while of nothing but silence between them, Loti said, "I can hear your heart beating."

Eomer let out one quick chuckle through his nose. "And what is it saying?"

"That you're kind and gentle. Nothing like you seem on the outside."

His smile grew bigger and he whispered confidentially, "Don't tell anybody, eh? If it gets around I'll get a bad reputation."

"You blame yourself, don't you?"

"Of course, who else?"

Her voice was husky with emotion. "Don't. It wasn't your fault. He wanted you to know."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he leveraged her away from his body, searching her eyes for answers before his next question. It wasn't a thing he wanted to ask, but it was something he needed to know. No man should die without knowing the secret joy of a woman's body; the power of taking her, the ecstasy of filling her with more than just his cock, the pleasure of intimacy and connection that could be found no place else. He hoped this man had been offered that chance.

"Loti, did you do what I asked you to do?"

She didn't answer, didn't move, didn't even blink, just returned his gaze under thick, dark lashes. It didn't matter; he already knew the answer.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked, sniffing and wiping her nose inelegantly on her sleeve.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "No. No, I'm not angry." Then Eomer bent his head and kissed her chastely, but not without feeling, on the mouth. "But I can't stand up any more. Will you help me to get back?"

What was done was done. And he had to remember that for both their sakes.

XXX

Somehow, Loti wrangled Eomer back into his bed. He was exhausted, chilled, generally unwell, and quite thoroughly lashed with her tongue for over doing it while he was ill. Despite his overall good health, size and strength, the infection was finally beginning to take its toll.

He had a bad night. The healers came every few hours to assess his condition or prognosis, or to discuss alternative treatments but the younger healers, impressed with Loti's stitching skill—she had the touch for it, but she was a woman after all, such delicate fingers for such fine needlework—and her knowledge of herbs and other fundamental basics of healing, they were content to let her do the bulk of his nursing.

And that left little time to dwell over the loss of her friend.

Kindness itself was Eomer the next morning when Glullyn was given his soldier's farewell. She was designated chief mourner and allowed to participate in the traditional Rohirric funeral ceremony. He held her when she wept and whispered words of comfort and sympathy in her ear that gave her hope and made her heart smile.

Afterwards, Eomer, forced now to use the walking stick and humiliated by its necessity, took some good natured ribbing from some of his officers about wizards and hobbit buggery, but put up a good front. He was weak though, it was obvious to everyone, and shaky, his shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his shoulders.

She flushed and redressed the wound and he collapsed into the big camp bed, unable to attend the funeral celebration. By mid afternoon, he was much worse.

XXX

It burned behind his eyes, licking in red shadowed flames, consuming him as its fuel in a conflagration of the body. He opened his eyes and winced as the light lanced spear-like through his eyeballs, so he shut them again. But then the bed started to spin, twirling him in one direction and the rest of the world in the other. It made him nauseous and gave him a piercing headache. The sheets were damp and clammy, his bare legs tangled somewhere in the mussed bedclothes. Sweat trickled behind his ears, down his temples, over the soft places of his throat, beaded in tiny droplets over his skin, sprung up in the hair of his chest. He was slick with it and not a little smelly as a result. Everything in his body hurt….ached to the core, to the very marrow of his bones, the roots of his teeth. Even the rush of his blood gave him pain. He was so tired…If he could only…sleep…

Awake…and trembling under a heavy blanket…garbled voices in his ears, unspoken words on his tongue… his name…then fuzzy faces, blobs of seemingly disembodied heads gazing down from on high… He giggled.

Hands touching, poking and prodding like he was a pin cushion…It was too much… he was so tired…

Awake…not dead yet…no sun to light up the tent canvas overhead, night…his name…a woman, smogged brown and bronze by his fever clouded eyes… her name?...oh, he remembered now, Hen…he liked that name, thought her liked her too…cool wetness on his forehead, hands, not his…don't go!

He reached for her with desperate strength and she took his hand. She held it, held it tightly.

Food?...no food…Drink?...alright…a hand behind his head, a cup pressed to his lips…wine…

Sleep, restless, tumbling in a void of disconnection…and dreams…

Eomer woke and dreamt; a river's clear waters running red from the slaughter of his men.

Woke and dreamt; a cold, hard rain on his face, the shrill cries and flapping of crows in a sky as gray and sullen as his sorrow.

Woke and dreamt; a blood red dawn, the smell of burning in his nose, the power of his horse beneath him as he lead the charge, mind lost to the frenzy of the fight that controlled his actions.

Woke and dreamt; his hands slick and dripping with blood, the metallic tang of it a quicksilver mist in the air.

Woke and dreamt; the young pale face of a man, frightened and dying, staring up at him from the ground, his arms branded in the tribal idolatry of black tattooing. The force and thrust of his knife through skin and muscle into the heart and the most startling pair of deep blue eyes watching him, eternally unblinking.

An indescribable pain cut through his head, hitting him like a blow from a club, fit to split his skull and spill his brains. A flash of red and colored lights pulsed behind his eyelids, turning like the patterns in a kaleidoscope. He cried out, he knew he did, gasping as the sword of repressed memories and fragmented visions cleaved through his body, searing like hot iron through solid ice.

The face in the foggy swirl of his fever dream ebbed and blurred, replaced by another, softer, and more pronounced in its beauty. The face had changed, but the eyes had remained the same.

He blinked, once.

"Eomer?" the face with the eyes said.

He shot straight up in bed, scrambling away from it—her—dragging the bedclothes with him to the far side of the bed.

"Eomer!" she—Loti—cried, lunging across the bed in a useless attempt at a grab just before he toppled backwards to the ground with a heavy thud and a groan. A shot of pain ripped through his bruised shoulder making stars and spots bounce merrily along on the inside of his eyes. Paying no heed to the pain, his head and shoulders popped up above the edge of the bed, gapping at her in an expression of sheer disbelief, eyes wild, breathing hard, hair on end like a deranged cat.

She surged off the bed like some kind of acrobatic jungle animal and tore outside, yelling for help, tent flaps swinging in her wake.

He made a sound that could only be described as "Uh," crumpled, and was unconscious before he hit the ground.

XXX

Loti popped the cork on the small bottle, assaying a cautious sniff, careful not to inhale any of the fine amber dust and tipped out a tiny mound into the palm of her hand. Pouring this into his hot tea, she stirred, watching it dissolve, colorless and odorless as sugar. The healers were afraid of it, hadn't any experience with it, didn't know its proper dosage, and refused absolutely to administer it to Eomer. Not that she couldn't understand their fear. They had every right to be apprehensive of its medicinal powers and non medicinal complications.

She took the cup from the tray, delivering it to him with the same care as she might his crown on a pillow. His eyes were glazed, gummy with the fever of infection as he sat on the edge of the bed, the black pupils small pinpoints in a sea of clear blue, gazing fixedly at nothing. Sitting down next to him, Loti wrapped his fingers around the mug.

"E, you have to drink this," she coaxed.

Her hand splayed across his sweat slickened back reassuringly, the sinuous columns and knots of muscle still hard and springy beneath her fingertips, not yet given to limpness or waste.

The Haradrim called it 'the joyful plant.' In Rohirric it was known as 'the flower that makes dreams' and it was as mysterious to them as snow was to Loti. Opium in small doses could induce sleep and relieve pain, in large amounts it was deadly, with prolonged use, addictive and debilitating.

Her hackles were up as she stomped around the encampment like a bull Oliphant, feeling mildly insulted and put upon. Still—still—she fumed, after three days of pestering, the healers refused to entertain the idea of administering opium to Eomer despite her insistence Haradrim healers used it frequently as a sedative and, in careful and proper doses, was not harmful. Foolish girl, they had said, it contained evil magic. Magic that took possession of a man's mind and soul, and threw the body's humors out of balance. Didn't she know unbalanced humors caused all sorts of problems including lack of vigor, impotence and infertility? No virile man of the Riddermark would countenance such a risk. The male essence was a man's power, his pride, his greatest gift!

Then she was rudely, and somewhat arrogantly, told to butt out.

It was that pompous Master Healer who looked like a wizened old crab apple and had an attitude just as sour to match. A man of half Rohirric, half Gondorian blood, the Master Healer had trained at the great House of Healing in Minas Tirith and, therefore, knew everything.

They, the Rohirrim, were not, as she once thought, an ignorant race—in fact they had an abundance of common sense and understanding of the world despite their lack of education as a whole—but what was perceived as ignorance to an outside observer was, in actuality, stubbornness and adherence to tradition.

Loti charged through a line of clean laundry drying between tents, tusks lowered.

Why was it some healers had such high handed, exaggerated opinions of themselves? The younger healers were only slightly less obdurate about the administration of opium instead of whiskey in the alleviation of pain, but at least they were willing to listen and observe, not relying on superstition as mere fact. But that smelly old fart had a mind shut up tight as a steel trap and opinions just as biting.

Now, not only was she seeing to her daily duties, but nursing Eomer as well, while the healers came only in intervals every few hours. It was she who brought him food and drink, washed him, got him help when he needed to go to the privy. It was Loti who stayed awake at night applying cool cloths to his brow, covering him in blankets when he shivered, and held his hand so he knew he wasn't alone. Good enough to be his nursemaid, she rumbled like a tea kettle on the boil, apparently not good enough for anything else.

Well, if the healers wouldn't listen to her, then she would find someone who would!

"You need to take me into town," Loti demanded from Eothain in her best don't-ask-any-questions-just-do-as-I-say voice.

The ax came down with a wood rendering creak, splitting the halved log into quarters.

"Thought you'd try it on your own, eh?" he asked, smiling at her dress and pink scarf draped head.

He bent, picked up another log, disregarding splinters, and set it on the chopping block. The muscles of shoulders, back and belly rippled and stretched as he swung, the result of his labor tumbling to the ground with hollow sounding thumps. Like Eomer, Eothain was a tall man and well set up; muscular but not bulging, slender but by no means thin, his carpet of tightly curled chest hair showing with sweat in the summer sun as he worked without his shirt, his soldier's impedimenta scattered nearby. Eothain was actually a rather handsome man.

Her mouth was set, hands on her hips, voice dismayed. "I tried to sneak past, but they stopped me just before I got out the gate. I can take care of myself, you know!"

"To be sure," he said, smiling at her indignation, "but we like to know our women are safe, no matter how pig headed they think we are. Why do you need to go into town?"

The ax was hefted again and cleaved cleanly through another log.

"I have things to do."

"Do you?" he said skeptically.

"Yes, I do. Are you going to take me or not?"

She was jittery and doing a poor job of hiding it as she twisted her fingers together, dancing from foot to foot. Eothain could not have mistaken her sense of urgency, but as always his demeanor was untroubled and irritatingly calm.

Rocking the head of the axe back and forth, he extracted the blade from the chopping block with a squeak.

"What's the hurry?"

"I have to go someplace."

Bending, Eothian tossed the newly split logs onto a pile of wood, clearing the space around him.

"How is he today?"

Danmable man! This was a delay tactic, and Loti recognized it as such. "Forget I asked," she snapped like a pair of sharp scissors and whirled on a slippered foot, "I'll find somebody else."

"Oh, no you won't," he sang as his hand caught her by the elbow and whirled her back around to face him. "This trip into town… Wouldn't have anything to do with our boy now, would it? I can't see you leaving him for any other reason."

"And what if it does?" Impatiently, she squeezed her lips together, raising her chin in challenge.

"Uh-huh." His hand let go, and he relaxed, leaning on the butt end of the ax handle. "If you want my help, you're gonna have to tell me what's going on, so spill it," he suggested.

Loti sighed, throwing up her hands in defeat. His help was needed if she intended on helping Eomer.

"He's not so doing well, you know."

"Mmhmm. I know, get on with it."

Loti nibbled on her lip while Eothain waited for an answer, thinking. "He needs opium!" she finally blurted.

"Opium? No… he's not gonna want that. Gives him the nightmares."

"He's had it before?"

Eothain's mouth tucked in at the corner and he gave her a fishy eye. "We were your age once too, lassie. We're old, not dead. We'd used to steal it out of the simples room and smo—"

She cut him off. "I know what you do with it."

"Mmhmm. What about the Dorwinion wine? Doesn't that do anything for him?"

Her shoulders hunched a little as she shook her head. "No. Eomer's like my mother. He's such a heavy drinker that his tolerance is too high. It's not doing anything helpful, just getting him drunk."

"Did you ask the healers if they'd give him the opium?"

Now Loti turned the fishy eye back on him. "Of course I've don't that! Do you think I'd be asking you for help otherwise? They think opium is evil magic. They won't give it to him even though I've told them over and over that it'll help him rest." With a shrug and a shake of the head, she told him the rest of it while pacing, stopping her peregrinations long enough to swat at an inquisitive horde of buzzing gnats. She was distressed and displeased with the whole bloody situation. "I don't know what else to do! He's very weak. Won't eat anything. Won't drink anything unless I force him to. He's not sleeping. Did you know he's delusional now? I don't know if it's from the pain for the fever or both! I thought if I tried to massage him with lavender oil that might help him sleep."

"Oh!" Eothain burst into laughter, "I bet he loved that!"

Loti did giggled a bit, biting her lip, glad for the release of tension. "He must have. He called me Gayssa and kept trying to put my hand down in pants!"

"Gayssa?" A look of unpleasant realization crossed Eothain's scaling, sunburned face, and his heavy brows drew together in a scowl. The silvered blue eyes flashed in anger for the briefest of instants, causing Eothain to resemble the fierce Horse Lord he so clearly was underneath his good natured amiability. "That dirty son of a bitch," he swore, then seeing Loti's confusion said, "Gayssa is my sister."

Snorting, giggling and taking full advantage of Eothain's discomfiture, she managed to get out, "Well, I won't tell you what other indecent things he wanted her to do to him!" It felt good to smile again. She hadn't laughed in days.

It took Eothain a minute to gather his wits after learning this disturbing revelation. He dug hurriedly through his discarded equipment, producing a pouch from which he pinched out a flakey brown substance and stuffed it inside his cheek, forming a large bulge behind his lip. Whatever this habit was—and she had seen scads of Rohirrim doing it—Loti found it unsanitary and disgusting.

"You're that worried about him?" he asked unexpectedly and somewhat gruffly, then spat a glob of brownish stuff some distance away.

"Yes, I'm worried about him," she confessed. Did he think her heartless?

"Why?"

She started, not anticipating this sort of questioning from Eothain of all people. "Why? Because he's—you're," Loti corrected, "you're the only ones who don't treat me like I'm just—this." Her hand swept in a gesture that indicated 'this' was her body. "I have to do something, Eothain! I can't just sit there day after day and watch him suffer, not after everything he's done for me…even after everything. I owe him that much, don't I?"

A light southern breeze stirred the skirts around her ankles, bringing with it the scents of hay and horses.

There was something growing on Eothain's face. It was a smile. "Is this the same girl who wanted our Eomer to die a death of a thousand cuts and then hack off his balls and feed them to the pig?"

She raised her chin pugnaciously. "I never said I wanted to cut them off and feed them to the pig."

"Oh, well, then, good. I suppose he's gonna need them when he gets better. Let me change and I'll get the horses."

The bell of the apothecary shop tinkled as Loti pushed the door open later that afternoon. It was eerily dark inside the long, narrow building in spite of the clear day and the large leaded glass windows that flanked either side of the entrance. Once inside, the smell of burning sulfur was so strong it hit her like a slap in the face, instantly clearing out her nasal passages, watering her eyes, and making her sneeze like a horse with a fly up its nose.

Following closely on her heels, Eothian, not a man who would use many words when one would do, eloquently declaimed, "Uff-da," as he encountered the brimstone stink.

Prudently, he'd decided to dress in boots, brown wool britches, sword and sword belt, shirt, and leather tunic in an attempt to blend in with the local populace, this not being an official military visit. Not that a six foot four inch, bearded, blonde man was by any means inconspicuous in South Gondor, but he'd given it his best shot, anyway.

The shop itself was dimly lighted by two low burning oil lamps hanging from chains in the far corners and to the left and right, both walls were lined with row upon row of small, stacked, square drawered boxes, ostensibly cataloguing and storing the herbalist's various herbs, roots and flowers. A wide wooden counter ringed the room on three sides, hiding perhaps things like frankincense and myrrh and other incense, infused oils and charms or ill-wishes. Yes, she decided, charms were a definite possibility. Overhead flew flocks of birds, both large and small, each one stuffed and suspended from the ceiling in motionless flight. A black crow perched, mounted in magisterial distain on a tree limb at the end of one of the counters, silent as the death it represented.

"Come on, we're leaving," Eothain ordered, yanking her back toward the door.

"Let me go! This is the third shop we've been to. I'm not leaving without asking."

_Who knew opium would be so hard to find_, she thought after exiting the second apothecary shop they'd visited that afternoon. The previous two shop owners told her, quite unhappily, that the poppy fields had been scourged by disease. Finding good quality opium south of Dol Amroth or Pelegrir would be nearly impossible. Loti and Eothain had left the last shop discouraged, but not defeated. It appeared now, though, Eothain was willing to set sail for Dol Amroth that afternoon if he could just get her out of this shop.

A curtain at the back of the store rustled, ending the argument, and the proprietor came out, dressed in the long black robes of an apothecary.

"No!" Loti ordered Eothain as he stepped around her to approach the man, "I'll talk to him. You might intimidate him," she added quickly, marveling at how Eothain's expressions resembled Eomer's sometimes; a sign of how close the two men were, almost like brothers.

His body posture was stiff and guarded as he eyed the chemist over her head, very different from his everyday carefree attitude, which only enhanced his similarity to Eomer. Grunting in a disapproving way, Eothain rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and stood back, watching as Loti approached the counter at the back of the shop.

It wasn't until she had almost reached the man that she saw what Eothain had picked up on through some sort of male sixth sense, even as the apothecary stood shrouded in the dimly lit depths of the store.

A thousand tiny feet raced tickling up her spine, urging her to turn and run when he slithered specter-like from the shadows into the thick yellow bubble of lamp light. Tall and slim with olive skin that hadn't seen even so much as a ray of sun in years, and a mop of lank dark hair; he had a face that resembled nothing so much as a lizard. The long, homely face came to a point at his wide thin lipped mouth, rows of gold hoops dangled from his ears and the small nose was pierced bull ring style with a thick gold loop. All that aside, it was the huge, half bulging eyes that made Loti swallow and recoil significantly enough to take a step back. She wasn't so sure the eyes wouldn't move independently of one another.

"What do you want, woman?" the apothecary demanded rudely in Haradrim, his hands tucked neatly inside his sleeves. His draperies lay over a pair of narrow shoulders as if hung from a too small clothes hanger.

Loti was feeling especially uneasy under the reptilian gaze but spoke with confidence, despite a dry mouth.

"I would like to buy some opium. If you don't have pure opium, poppy syrup would be fine, too. Do you have any?"

The beady serpent's eyes surveyed her from the soles of her slippered feet to the top of her brown head, lingering too long on her face and the barest hint of cleavage revealed by the dress. His tongue darted out from between the thin lips; licking or tasting the air?

"Yes, I have some…for a price," the apothecary replied slowly in a way that made Loti want to scrub herself raw in a hot bath.

Thrilled by the luck of it all, it was still necessary to maintain an aloof stand off-ish attitude. They had money, but they certainly didn't want to be robbed blind by some opportunist taking advantage of their desperate situation.

"I have gold," she said curtly and, thrusting a hand into a pocket, produced three gold coins, placing them on the countertop with a dull clink. He leaned forward appraisingly, but he wasn't looking at the money.

There was some symbol on his neck, below his ear, a tattoo. A glyph of some kind or another that she hadn't been able to place until now.

Loti had always been a polygot. Ever since she had been a little girl crawling the havens of Umbar, languages had come easy. She had seen writing like that before, ancient, as old as time. It was the black speech, the symbol for the Dark Lord. This man, lizard, thing, whatever he was, was a worshipper of Sauron.

Smarter and more ambitious than his master, Sauron's desire for rule made him more far more dangerous to the free peoples of Middle earth than did his master who had, instead, sought the destruction of all things. He had wished to rule the world and all its peoples according his own order, set himself up a god, though only a Maia, and was worshipped and feared by men of the South and East, not out of love or respect, but out of fear. Those who would join in worshiping in his cult were said to have been granted everlasting life. They were cruel and violent men, thirsty for power, desiring above all things to please their master.

There were rumors, whispers of brutality perpetrated by the followers in hope of finding favor from their master; rape, torture, mutilation.

Loti was by no means stupid, a bit naïve about some things, maybe, but she was young and had lived a life of seclusion, her window on the world a narrow slit with little perspective. But Loti was educated and observant. She knew all too well that every movement, be it political or social, had its lunatic fringe; those with extreme or fanatical views who used propaganda and fear mongery to achieve their goals by any means necessary. Loti had lived and worked within the boundaries of that fringe for a large portion of her life. There were no discussions with men like this, no negotiating, no means by which to placate them. And the worshippers of the cult of Sauron were as much a part of that fringe as she had been.

If not for these radical groups lingering on the edges of society force feeding the poor, the ignorant and the uneducated their twisted ideals, inciting the masses with their extremist ideas of what the world should look like, how else would armies be raised?

"Are you an elf?" he asked without preamble, a touch too much excitement in his oily voice.

Loti sounded more confident than she felt. "No," she said, her invisible self preserving antennae swiveling around.

The apothecary sneered, his obvious dislike of unsubmissive women, twisting his features. "Put back your scarf, woman. Let me see your face."

In ordinary circumstances, she would've told him where he could stick his opium and intrusive questions. But this was no ordinary circumstance. Sometimes, it was needful to make deals with devils. Reluctantly, she slid the scarf's light fabric from her head, licking dry lips, her gut a coiled heap of knots. She had a very bad feeling this was going to cost more than three gold coins.

The corners of the thin mouth curled upward into a smile revealing two rows of teeth filed to perfect points. Now her heart was beating like a blacksmith's hammer in her chest, blood ringing in her ears. He no longer looked like a lizard to Loti.

Hadn't Sauron fled Nuemenor in the guise of a vampire?

"Yes… yes, you are," the words oozed slick as blood from his lips, "Only elves carry the mark of the Valar. The blood of elves runs strong in you."

Despite her growing apprehension, she stood her ground. "My gold is as good as any. Are you going to sell it to me or not?"

"So much power in such a small bitch." He spoke thoughtfully, as though to himself.

Loti turned an icy blue stare on him, glaring boldly into the popping black eyes of the serpent. One of the eyes stayed fixed on her while the other swiveled to Eothain, regarding him critically.

"Is he your man?"

Eothain had done far better than Eomer in learning this particular Haradrim dialect. Even though his vocabulary was rudimentary at best, he understood the question and the tone in which it was asked. She heard rather than saw him stiffen, the leather of his tunic and the boards under his feet creaking as his weight shifted, tensing for attack.

"No, he isn't. My—" she hesitated, "I belong to another man. My man is sick. I need the opium for him."

"Loti..."

Eothain's heavy northern voice came from the direction of the door, fraught with warning.

"Eothain, go wait with the horses," she said.

Her eyes never left the pale, homely lizard face. There was nothing she would have like more than to grab that ring through his nose and punch the poor excuse for a drapery rod in the neck. But she wanted that opium more than he needed a good beating. It was her single reason for staying, her purpose, and she wasn't leaving without it.

"We're—"

"Eothain! Do as I say!" she barked, "Go wait with the horses!"

He stood for a moment waiting, his glare boring holes into her back, then he grasped the brass door knob, muttered something very ungallant and thoroughly misogynistic, yanked the door open and shut it with an angry slam behind him, the vibration rattling the leaded windows, bottles and jars on shelves. Loti felt the jolt of impact, cringing on the inside as it shivered up her legs.

The apothecary moved as though on wheels, gliding back into the shadows, the orbs of eyes and valleys of cheekbones darkening so his face appeared only as the outlines of a skull. Lifting the flap between the counters he held back the curtain, invitingly. And Loti stepped willingly into his lair.

Several minutes later, she burst through the door into the blistering furnace of summer, discomposed and disheveled, locks of hair falling out of its knot and her dress wrinkled, stained and smelling like she'd gone head first into a barrel of rotten eggs. Her escort looked up, catching sight of her as she whizzed past, snatching at Thyrs's reins, kilting up her skirts and trying to stick a too short leg into a too tall stirrup. In her fight for self possession and control of her horse, she never heard Eothain approaching from behind. He plucked her from the ground, hoisting her into the saddle with little effort before gaining his own mount with a graceful and practiced ease. They rode quickly and without delay to the Rohirric encampment, the gold coins chiming together, a heavy weight in her pocket.

Eothain said not a word.

Now, hours later, after she had bathed and scrubbed the smells of the day from her hair and skin, Loti took the empty cup of tea from Eomer's hands.

It was business. A transaction. No one was hurt by it. It was victimless, she told herself. She had gotten what she needed and he had taken his payment in trade. And she had done it for Eomer… because he was all that mattered.

XXX

Eomer had slept nearly three days straight in an opium enduced haze, rousing only to use the chamber pot, drink honey sweetened water or tea, and chew on a bit of biscuit. His injured thigh was swollen nearly half again as big as the other, throbbing an angry dark red, hot and fevered to the touch. The bruises and other minor lacerations on his body were healing without incident, fading to shades of pink, light purple and yellow, but the leg was not. All the useful remedies they had tried-garlic, Chase-devil, honey, teas, tinctures, infusions, potions and herbs—everything the healers knew of seemed to be failing. The healers came for their visits grim faced and less optimistic with every passing day.

Outside the King's quarters, it was quiet as a crypt. No songs were sung, no stories were told around the fire after a long day's work. A solemnness hung over the ring of tents occupied by the King's Guard and its highest ranking officers. The healers weren't the only ones losing hope.

She wrung out a cloth in the water basin and laid it across Eomer's brow. The hour was late, well past the nighttime rising of the summer moon. Her neck and shoulders were sore and tight from stooping and sitting hunched, and her eyes ached with strain from the low candlelight and lack of sleep. She rolled her head in a circle and then her shoulders, hearing her vertebrae pop between her shoulder blades in a futile attempt to work out the kinks and stitches.

Sleep, rest, and nursing were the best and only medicines left to fight off his illness, but in these dark lonely hours of the night, exhausted and given to wild swings of emotion, she began to wonder if he would ever recover. It wasn't something she liked to think about, but, if for some reason Eomer didn't pull through, it was the small things about him that Loti would miss. His smile, wide and full with the missing tooth in the back. Rare though they were, he could light up a crowd with one big grin, making anyone feel at ease. The thick knuckled, blunt nailed hands as big as trencher platters. The way he rode a horse, so natural and regal. How he forked hay to the horses, twisted his sword in his hand while practicing, teased and played with children.

Loti was over tired. That was it! That's why she felt unexpectedly choked, overcome with the need to weep. She reined it in and tried to stomp it out like a nasty incest, but some of it still remained.

All at once she was struck with a strange and urgent need to see him. Slowly, voyeuristically, she drew back the sheet. He was beautifully made, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip, long of arm and leg. The muscles of his thighs and buttocks were bunched and thick, unusually large, formed by years spent in the saddle. She studied his tattoo, graceful and bold as its owner. His belly was flat and smooth in spite of the scarred skin, divided in half by the trail of dark blonde hair, so suggestively erotic, that came to an end in a thick dark tangle. Her gaze lingered on his penis, that fascinating male appendage which was both a man's strength and his weakness, lying limp amongst the bushes. Would he ever find pleasure with a woman again?

The screaming of a distant stallion snapped her back to reality. She wasn't breathing. How long had she been holding her breath, looking at him? A feeling of shame interrupted her leering and with one quick tug of the bed clothes, his nakedness was covered, but the pain that pierced her heart was back, persistent as infection.

Work. Work was what was needed to take her mind off Eomer's deteriorating condition. Although Wolf and Eoin had divided up most of Eomer's daily routine amongst themselves, Loti was days behind on correspondence, copying, decoding and updating the ciphered intelligence reports and the stacks and stacks of requisitions that needed to be compiled, ordered, sent and checked. An army was always in need of supplies. Wood for burning and building, food and beer, tent canvas, oats and hay for the horses, furniture, iron mongery, everything must be brought up river by ship or overland via wagon.

Sighing, weak kneed and heavy hearted, Loti began the chore of prioritizing the requests, pouring through the piles of paperwork, putting off the inevitable. Ten minutes later, she was still shuffling the stacks, her mind on a totally different task.

If the worst should happen and he should not recover, Eomer made her swear to write to his sister, not as his secretary or some other impersonal member of his staff, but as one woman to another. Grieving sister to grieving sister.

But how _could_ she do it? To write such a letter would mean she had given up all hope, an admission that he was dying or would die. It felt like a betrayal. And yet…

Did his sister not have the right to know what her beloved brother's last days were like? Shouldn't she be told that he was well cared for, that he had suffered as little as possible? Did Loti not owe it to his sister to compose a letter while still calm and possessing clarity of mind? Was it not something she wished had been done for her?

At first she had refused, but now saw the wisdom in asking her to perform such a somber duty. Perhaps her words would bring his sister some comfort, bring closure for the sake of both siblings.

She reached for a sheet of the fine paper used for correspondence, dipped her quill and wrote:

_Dear Lady Eowyn, _

The feathers on the end of the quill began to shake. It was her hand, trembling. No sooner had she written the words down and her eyes brimmed with tears. Her chest was burning, the inky words on the page drowned out. Loti blinked and the tears, warm and wet, ran unbidden down her cheeks to plop on the paper below, bubbling and puckering it. Squeezing her lips between her teeth and holding her breath, she tried to make them stop but it was already too late. Hiccupping, she laid her head on her arms, seized by the fury of the storm, grief cresting like a wave in a salty sea.

She wept aloud; who would hear? Wept for everything he might never be; husband, father, uncle. Wept for what he might never have; wife, children, nieces and nephews, real happiness. Wept for what he might leave behind; friends, his people, what was left of his family. And finally, irrationally, angrily, selfishly, for herself and all the things she might never be.

"We're not so different, you and me," he had said. Yes, he was right about that. Eomer had seen it from the first, and he not even knowing her.

A moan and the rustle of bedclothes came from the other side of the tent, a faint sound like breath blowing over the neck of a clay jug.

"Mother…"

Loti lifted her head quickly, sniffing loudly and wiping at her foolish tears. Her aching pride wouldn't allow herself to be caught crying over something that hadn't yet happened.

The voice came again, weak and rough like gravel.

"Mother, don't cry…"

A cool night breeze fluttered the tent flaps, bending the flames of the candles, carrying with it the spicy scents of summer flowers, sweet wood smoke, the fecund greenery of the river banks and the shrill high pitched songs of frogs and crickets. Cupping her hand around the candle flame, Loti rose from her seat, illuminated by a golden glow of light, and knelt on the ground next to his bed. He had rolled onto his good side, the wet cloth fallen away. She wrung it out in the water basin and gently wiped his face. Another sound passed between his lips, this time more a noise of relief than pain.

He reached out a hand and Loti placed her hand in his, twining their fingers together, the pressure of his fingers still strong and alive with conviction.

"Mother?"

"Y-yes," she replied, hesitant and low voiced, Loti wasn't exactly sure what to say or do in a situation like this. "It—It's me. I'm here."

He sighed noisily in what she thought might be relief.

His eyes were barely open, but alert and watchful behind heavy lids, the night black pupils shrunken to pin points. Eomer was clearly hallucinating, whether suffering the effects of the opium or in the grip of a fever dream, Loti wasn't quite sure.

Eomer's mother was dead some eighteen years or so, that Loti knew, but the circumstances under which she had died were still a mystery to her. She hoped for a young Eomer's sake, it hadn't been violent.

He was burning up, his skin radiating heat like a hot iron griddle just pulled from the fire. Sweat covered him in a fine sheen, a bead of it streaking down his cheek. Loti wiped it away with her thumb.

"Don't cry, mother. Da wouldn't like it," he said. Lightly, his fingertips brushed over her skin, smudging the trail of tears. He seemed to look through her, beyond her, into a distant past not yet forgotten. "I'll take care of you and Eowyn now. Don't worry."

Her free hand smoothed back the tumbled strands of hair sticking to his damp forehead.

"I know you will."

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too, Eomer. I—Eomer…no mother ever had a better son."

He groaned far back in his throat, a breathy sound of contentment.

"I love you, mother," he sighed, the grip on her hand lessening, his fingers going loose jointed with sleep.

"I—" She stopped, her heart in her throat, the weight of a thousand pounds crushing her chest. "I know. Me, too."

She leaned in and kissed him between the eyes.

_Me, too._

XXX

Crammed together with twenty five sweaty, unwashed, greasy barbarian men like pickled herrings in a jar was not fun. Crammed together with the same twenty five barbarians inside a hot and stuffy tent watching the Master Healer examine Eomer's leg was much less so. In two days, the swollen infected leg had gone from bad to worse, and Loti didn't need to see or smell it to know what was happening.

The Master Healer, perched on the edge of the bed, pulled the sheet back down over the thigh and shook his head in dismay.

Creeping tinges of black appeared around the raw, gaped edges of the wound two days ago and in the intervening days had spread amazingly quickly, fading from a taught, bulging, dark red to the lifeless, semi squashy blackness of rotting flesh. When the bandage was removed for examination or redressing, it gave off a terrible, sickeningly putrid smell that could make a stomach of cast iron summersault. The 'black rot' it was called. And it could very easily kill a man within days.

The murmurs and susurrus of shifting weight were silenced when the healer shook his head but the back and forth of darting eyes, the unspoken words in those fleeting glances were as loud as ringing bells. Loti watched with curiosity the emotion in those flickering sets of eyes, disappointment and fear the most prevalent. Nowhere did she see signs of anger or blame. As the healers mumbled and conferred amongst themselves, she caught and held Eothain's eye across the room. He looked away first, worried, uneasy.

The Master Healer spoke, commanding everyone's attention. "The black rot is spreading quickly, so we must act soon. We have discussed it and determined the only way to save his Lordship is to remove the leg."

Loti's mouth dropped open in unvoiced protest, too stunned by the news to even speak.

_No_, she thought mazily, _no…_

After that, she heard only snippets of the Master Healer's words.

Fragile health...greatly weakened…

_No…_

Multiple procedures…excise dying tissues…more harm than good…

_No…_

If Unsuccessful…amputation of limb…best to act with haste.

No! This wasn't happening!

Verdict given and prognosis discussed, the men, healers and the King's Guard, filed out of the tent to return to their duties, their faces etched with dejection. Loti threw one quick look over her shoulder. Eomer was lying, metaphorically, dead to the world. Satisfied, she chased after the departing men. Or, rather, one of the departing men.

"We need to talk," she said briskly, breezing past Eothain like a sloop in full sail disappearing behind another tent. Eothain, a married man and therefore used to taking orders from women, obeyed.

When they stopped Loti tore into him like a dog after a rat. "So that's it then. You're not going to say or do anything to stop this?"

He sighed with exasperation. "You heard what the healer said. He's so weak from fever they don't want to put him through anymore than they have to. We've been friends since we were boys and if I've got my choice I'd rather have a one legged friend than a dead one. I've got enough of those already. Besides, it's not my place to interfere."

"Not interfere?" Loti gasped in horror.

"You don't like the Master Healer."

"You're right, I don't! I think he's a pompous old crab!" she shot back. Blood was roaring in her ears, she was so upset. This wasn't the time for anger and irritation. If she were to sway Eothain, she needed calm, clarity, and calculation. "He's not a butcher, not really," she began again, carefully, decisively, "He's a battlefield surgeon. It's just—Well, you've seen them work. What they do isn't an art, it's mercy. Call it ruthless compassion. He's used to acting, making the best decisions to save men's lives. That's what he thinks he's doing here, but, Eothain, he isn't even going to ask Eomer what he wants! They're just going to do it!"

The frown above his brows softened and his eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "Ho, ho! You've got a plan!"

She nodded and he gestured for her to elaborate.

"We'll ask him. If we offer him a choice he might…he might still die." Taking a step forward, Loti balled two handfuls of his chainmail sleeves in her fists. Touching a Rohirrim man was not unlike touching a newly captured feral stallion. They hummed with an unchecked intensity, a fierceness like no other race of people she had ever known. Even mild mannered Eothain made her fingers tingle.

His big hands came up and rested lightly on her shoulders. "Might die, might live. Is might good enough for you?" One of his eyebrows rose. There was an odd tone of something like curiosity in his voice.

"It has to be, doesn't it, because I know if they do take his leg he will die. He has too much pride to live as a cripple; being looked at as a victim, seeing the look of pity in other people's eyes. I can't let it happen. I have to do this for him!" She was pleading now, forcefully, gripping him tighter, her own pride cast to the wind. "You _have_ to help me. I need you. You _have_ to back me on this!"

Eothain's shoulders heaved in a resigned sigh. A smile and discolored teeth split the bushy beard. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you got a pair of balls in them britches. Tell me what you need."

"Three of the biggest men you can find." Loti turned her head, squinting at the sun. "In two hours."

XXX

For the two hundredth time, Loti peered into the steaming kettle hanging over the fire, finally deciding a watched pot really doesn't boil when her ears caught the distinctive ring and clank of approaching soldiers. She could pick out their voices even before they rounded one of the far tents.

"Eothain, I thought I said three," she chastened, frowning at Eoin and the dog-like Wolf, who flashed her one of his fang toothed grins.

"Number three's coming," he assured.

Not more than a few seconds later the sound of a horse in full cantor came from behind the far tents along with the sight of a horse hair plumed helm peeking over the top of a tent. A tent that was nearly twelve feet tall! Still out of sight the rider dismounted gave cajoling orders to his equine companion, smacked the beast on the rump in dismissal and from the afternoon's long shadows stepped the biggest man she had ever met. The sun's rays sparked from the crown of the polished steel helm before two huge, dirt stained hands plucked it off his head revealing a handsomely suntanned face smiling with boyish charm.

"Theofrid!" Loti beamed with unexpected pleasure, looking up and up and up.

The first time she'd met Theofrid, an accidental encounter involving the incongruous activities of walking, eating and reading, Loti realized the stories she had heard as a child about the giants of the north who laid their long bones in the earth were most definitely true.

The male form, utilitarian and brutish in its simplistic construction, was a beautiful thing to behold. The male form was even more so when pushed to and beyond the limits of exaggeration. Though a commoner, Theofrid carried himself with the stately refinement of a nobleman, never slouching and proud of his awesome height. And he _was_ tall, without question the tallest man she had ever seen, towering eight inches or so over Eomer, who had been the previous holder of that distinction. Theofrid also possessed Eomer's rugged, agrarian good looks; high cheek bones, a strong angular jaw, large eyes the same vibrant green as grass at the peak of summer and a wide captivating smile that could make any girl's heart quiver like a swarm of butterflies in her chest.

His two most traditionally Rohirric features were also his most unique. Any woman, including Loti, would be envious of his hair. Never cut, and a shade of golden blonde so ultra light as to be almost white, it hung in a thick, silky braid to the small of his back. Theofrid's beard was a slightly darker shade of golden blonde with an interesting twist. He groomed the hair on his chin into a long point which he stoked and tugged when nervous or thoughtful.

Dipping his sun bleached, blonde head and placing a hand over his heart in a most courtly manner, he greeted her in a dulcet baritone that was like honey mead purling into a mug, the cool green eyes alight with suppressed excitement in spite of the overall situation. "Hello, milady. It's nice to see you again."

Barbarous in appearance on the outside—he was able to wield a twenty pound, two handed great sword one handed with the effortless grace of a dancer—on the inside, Theofrid was a genuinely kind and protective soul in the way that only men of his size can be.

"Go on! Kiss her hand and drink wine out of her shoe while you're at it, ass kiss!" Eoin heckled the giant, watching the exchange.

Longingly, Eothain put in, "Oh to be young again."

Eoin elbowed Wolf a couple of times, jabbing his long time friend in his thickset ribs. "Young again? Are you listening to him?" he laughed. "How old are you now, Cuckold? One and thirty? Boy, when your cock stops standing up in the morning, you'll know you're old."

Eothain, always one for a crude joke, even if it was at his own expense, joined in the hilarity. "Well, my cock's been standing since I took leave of the wife, so I guess that makes me, what, about thirteen again."

"I think what he's trying to tell you is that once you get to be his age, it stops standing up all together," said Theofrid, jerking his head in Wolf's direction. Prematurely gray, Wolf took a lot of kidding about his age, although he couldn't have been more than forty.

Smiling good-humouredly and revealing several yellowing teeth, Wolf turned to the giant. "Say, speaking of cockstands, how's that girl of yours?"

Wolf, like Eomer, honestly cared about the general welfare of his men and had a leader's ability to remember just about anything about anyone.

A line divided Theofrid's eyebrows, disturbing his finely chiseled features. "She's still not talking to me."

A farmer by trade with a five acre croft in the Eastfold, a then twenty two year old Theofrid like so many other young men from the Riddermark had been swept away from his land and people by the tide of war. In the ensuing victories and celebrations, he had met and fell into bed with a girl from Minas Tirith. But not just any girl, the seventeen year old, virginal, only daughter of a Gondorian councilor. And from that union, to the horror and shame of the girl's father, came little Theoden, Theofrid's bastard son whom he had never seen.

"Well, I tell you what, when we're done here, we'll tap a new keg and help you figure something out. I think we'll all need a pint when this is over with." Wolf clamped a hand on the arm of a suddenly serious faced Theofrid, then turned to Loti. "Are you going to tell us what the plan is?"

Seeing everyone assembled, in that moment, standing there surrounded by five of the biggest men she had ever met, Loti felt paradoxically very small and very powerful.

"Just do as I say," she told them and led the way inside.

Eomer lay on his bed as he had for days, naked, tumbled amid sweat stained bed clothes and insensible in an opium induced stupor. If it weren't for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he might be mistaken for dead. There was no healthy radiance to his skin, no flush of color across the crests of cheekbones or broad expanse of chest. He would certainly be dead in a few days, maybe a week, if no one interfered. It seemed sometimes the only thing keeping him alive was stubbornness.

A dull sounding thump came from across the room, like a melon falling to the ground, followed by a few low chuckles and flood of very bad, if not colorful curse words. Damn. She'd forgotten to warn Theofrid about the chandelier.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed Loti briskly patted him on the cheek.

"Eomer, wake up," she demanded until he convulsed, body and mind surging out of unconsciousness, the blue eyes flying open in surprise. He groaned, a painfully long and exhausted sound as he caught sight of the men above.

Gazing up at everyone surrounding him, Eomer grinned tiredly and spoke, sounding like a rusty old door hinge, his vocal chords not used to the exercise. "I'm dying and you four fuckers don't have the decency to bring me a whore?"

Loti didn't let him say too much after that.

"Get him up," she ordered, getting off the bed, walking to the desk, picking up a shirt and shoving it into Eothain's belly. It was best to act fast, while he still had no idea what was going on. "And put that on him."

With a few stifled moans and swallowed expletives, Eoin and Wolf maneuvered him rather awkwardly to the side of the bed. He was weak, thin looking from not eating, and waxy faced under his tan. While swaying tipsily on some sort of imaginary axis his eyes lolled back in his head, face contorted in pain from the sudden rush of blood, the inside of his skull pulsating from the new perspective. For a second Loti thought he might fall over and pass out. Apparently, so did Wolf who put a steadying hand on Eomer's shoulder. Eomer, besides bearing a strong resemblance to the undead, was ornery. He knocked the hand from his bruised shoulder, shoving his man in the stomach roughly enough to make Wolf take two steps backward into Eothian. Cinching the bed sheet tighter about his naked loins, he dropped his head into his hands and made the belligerent mutterings of a man who'd prefer to be left alone. He was hurting, but she didn't think it was his leg that pained him in this case.

For the first time Loti wondered if he would survive even the most expert surgical procedure, let alone the brutally crude one she would offer to perform. The strength of conviction might still there, but physically the infection, days of fever and lack of nutrition had sapped every ounce of energy from a once vigorous individual.

He ran a hand over his face and through his beard, untrimmed for many days. Loti held back a smile thinking he looked a right wooly caterpillar.

Clad now in the shirt, worn but relatively clean, she asked him, "How do you feel?"

"Like a fly swirled around in a glass of beer. Why? How am I supposed to feel?"

"About like that."

She watched his gaze moved over her appraisingly, the bloodshot blue eyes lingering on the knife in her hand.

"What are you going to do with that?" he asked his voice tinged with a wary uncertainty.

"You know perfectly well what I'm going to do with it."

"Kill me?" he guessed, just a little facetious smile touching the corner of his mouth, although it looked like Eomer had grown paler, if that was even possible. "Praise Bema! Hurry up and do it. Through the heart, eh, and don't make a mess of it."

"Oh, shut up! Do you know what's wrong with you?"

"My leg," he said dryly.

She ignored him. Despite his flippancy, he didn't look good. Everything about him seemed to droop; his unwashed hair, his eyelids, his shoulders, his—well, she couldn't really see that but imagined it was drooping in any case.

"Your wound is festering and is turning black. Did you know that?"

Quite obviously he didn't because his hands, which had been hanging loose between his legs, curled into fists.

Not one of the four men standing behind her asked why they had been summoned. They had come not out of a soldier's duty to his king but from loyalty to an injured friend, a respected leader. And not just loyalty to Eomer, but loyalty to herself, she realized, more flattered by that fact than by any verbal compliment she'd ever received. She hoped that loyalty would be extended when the Master Healer found out what she had done. The Rohirrim were merciful, but there were three kinds of people they did not tolerate; traitors, rapists and murderers. If Eomer should die by her hand, she was fairly certain the Master Healer would personally see her head paraded around all of Northern Middle earth on a pike!

"Give him the whiskey bottle," she ordered, gesturing randomly.

"I don't want any."

"I don't care. Give it to him anyway." She turned her attention to the desk and her surgical preparations, holding the blade over a bowl in order to pour perfectly good bandy over the blade of the knife.

"I want to know what you're going to do. Don't I get a say in any of this?" His voice was on the rise, hard and growing harder.

Whirling, she addressed him using the knife for emphasis, the features of her face and her determination set in stone. "No. There isn't time. Get him in the chair and get him to drink," and she whirled back, sticking the knife's blade into the flickering flames of the brazier. The brandy dripped from the steel edge hissing in the coals, burning off the alcohol from the blade in faint blue wisps.

Wolf and Eoin stepped forward, grabbing Eomer around the arms but he still had enough of something—orneriness, stubbornness—to shirk them off, finally losing his temper.

"You little bitch!" he roared, some of his color and vitality coming back. "I swear by Eru almighty if you try to cut off my leg I'll delivery you right back into the hands of the men I took you from! And I'll see all you fuckers dead if you help her! I won't let you make me a cripple with my own knife!"

Loti had often wondered on the origins of the Rohirric noises she heard the men of the Rohirrim using; those grunts, growls, and vague indeterminates which could mean pretty much anything. Ironically, she thought they came from Rohirric women who could find no other words to express the frustration of living with idiotic, pig headed Rohirric men!

She rounded on Eomer, her nerves frayed and her temper rising like magna through the chambers of a volcano. "You!" she shouted, pointing at him with the knife, its tip wafting fumes of burned brandy. Loti made one of these Rohirric noises now, low, deep, and fed up. "Valar save me from stubborn men! How did I end up so cursed to get stuck with the likes of you?" Her voice was as sharp as ice breaking under foot, crisp and brittle. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to cut your leg off. The healers are coming to do that."

Eomer's eyes widened, several emotions playing in their crystal blue depths, confusion, fear, misunderstanding, panic. He looked from Loti to each of the other men, seeking conformation.

"They don't mean to hurt you, they're worried about you, but they don't think you have the strength to take anymore and by the looks of you, they may very well be right! They think they're saving your life. But I know if they did take your leg you would die. What good would you be, a king with one leg? You couldn't ride, couldn't lead your men into battle. You'd lose all credibility." She paused just for an instant in order to infuse her words with the appropriate seriousness. "I swear by the gods, I would rather smother you with a pillow myself than ever see you crippled."

His fingers shoved roughly through his sleep tangled hair, the flush coloring his skin quickly disappearing. The atmosphere in the tent was strung tight, crackling with tension like the air before a lightning storm. Not even the fidgety creak and shift of a leather boot could be heard.

Her lips curled under, piranha-like. "Now, the longer you sit there arguing, the less time we have. You don't have many choices, all of them painful, none of them good and you might still lose your leg. But I'm still going to cut you, clean it out, and stitch it up. What I need to know from you is if you trust me enough to let me try?"

Eomer immediately turned his attention back to Eoin and Wolf, and with his usual verbal economy said, "Shit…Get me up."

Jerking him to his feet, they helped him, hopping one legged, into his desk chair in the middle of the room.

"Should we tie him down, do you think?" Eothain whispered, leaning close to speak confidentially to Loti while she fiddled with the medicaments laid out neatly across the surface of the desk.

"No…" she said, puzzled, "That's why you're here."

Eothain responded with a lackluster, "Oh," and a frown, not seeming all that convinced.

She leaned back peering around Eothain to catch a sidelong view of Eomer waiting stoically in his chair, an expression of deepest contemplation etched on his run-down features, the inward look of a man preparing for something he didn't want to face.

"He's got too much pride to be tied down like an animal," she explained, returning to zing the pestle around the mortar, "It would be…humiliating for him."

"Mmhmm." This was a dubious noise at best. Then he laid one of his meaty hands on her shoulder and said, "O blessed Bema of the Red Domain."

Loti stared at him, not understanding.

Eothain smiled and explained. "It's the blessing women give their men when they leave for battle. It goes 'O blessed Bema of the Red Domain watch over you in battle and return you safely home' or something close to that."

Loti felt a sheepish tugging at the corner of her mouth. It was a blessing given to a warrior about to do battle.

"We also say 'Blessed is the man'—or the woman—'who remains steadfast under trial.'" He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I have seven sisters. He's my best friend. Try not to kill him, eh?" Pushing himself away from the desk, he went to stand with the only brother he had ever known.

Unspeaking and tall he sat awaiting her. Not bothering to lace the shirt, a broad expanse of faded tanned skin and curly blonde chest hairs shown from underneath the low cut placket. How could a man command such an imperious presence wearing nothing but an old shirt and a ratty bandage tied about his leg?

She thrust the whiskey bottle under his nose. "Drink. You have to have something for the pain."

"No," he answered, tight lipped.

"Opium, then. I'll mix some of it in a glass of whiskey."

Determined, Eomer held his ground with manly stubbornness. "Woman, I said no. I want to feel the pain. Pain means I'm still alive. If I'm going to die, I'd rather know about it instead of being drunk or drugged like some poor bastard in an alleyway. Let me keep some of my pride at least."

"Fine!" she spat mentally throwing up her hands.

Reducing his pain was only part of the reason she wanted him to down a few slugs of whiskey or a small dose of opium. Whiskey or opium would dull his senses, slow his reflexes, suppress some of that incredible physical strength he didn't know he possessed. Without it, Eomer would be like a tormented tiger in a cage, unpredictable, frightened, fully aware of everything going on around him, and mean.

As the times demanded, a man's shirt fell to mid thigh, worn tucked into his britches to serve as protection against the chaffing of his sensitive bits, especially when wearing leather breeches or riding horseback. Loti smoothed Eomer's shirt back from his injured thigh, tucking it around his leg in an attempt to preserve as much of his dignity as possible. In doing so, the backs of her fingers accidentally brushed against his balls and he started like he'd been poked with the business end of a spear. He was strung tighter than a harp string. She should have apologized, but didn't. There was no time for modesty, not now.

Her hands slid to the bandage, fingers slipping under the strips, tearing with a rending whisk of linen, her gorge rising as some of the dead and decaying skin came away, stuck to the underside of the poultice. It smelled something awful, sweetly rotten, bulges of whiteish, yellowish skin stretched over his horribly swollen thigh.

Moving to the desk, Loti picked up the beautifully crafted antler handle knife Eomer had given her, conveniently resting on a clean towel next to the other surgical accoutrement, only to have Theofrid lay a massive ham sized hand on her arm a moment later.

"Maybe I should do it," he offered, his eyes soft, but behind their soothing green color, worried.

Then she looked down. Her knife hand was trembling.

"Just let her do it, you ogre!" Eomer snarled, restrained in his seat like an unwilling Yuletide goose on its way to slaughter. "I don't like the thought of your hands near my cock and I definitely don't want your fat sausage fingers anywhere near my asshole!"

Theofrid shrugged, lewdly flexed the fingers in question and smiled as the others laughed, kneeling down to hold Eomer's leg while Wolf, Eoin, and Eothain, strategically placed behind the chair, made good natured jokes.

"Nobody ever died from having his asshole stretched, Rooster."

"You'd know all about it, wouldn't you, you old dog," Eoin shot back.

"Yah, well, that's true," Wolf admitted, "Let your old lady wiggle her finger up there the next time you see her. It'll bring you off real fast! And, you won't have to you won't have to get up five times a night to take a piss. Trust me, you'll thank me later!"

"Real quick, huh? I suppose I'd do the same thing if I had to share a bed with you."

Eomer didn't find them the least bit funny.

Someone produced a thick piece of leather confiscated from an old saddle for Eomer to bite down on and inserted it tentatively between his teeth. The idea of having part of one's body slit wide open and a large chunk of flesh cut out of said body with eight inches of razor sharp Gondorian steel while helplessly tied to a chair would scare any normal man. And despite Eomer's bravery he was still just that. His wide, glossy eyed stare was disconcerting as he watched her, worrying the leather bit. She had cause to know there was always one emotion that was unmistakable in the eyes of any man, fear.

Theofrid took hold of Eomer's leg in a grip so tight it turned his fingernails white and the others linked their arms through his and put hands on his shoulders pushing him into the chair. They knew the kind of superhuman strength a man could possess when in the throes of extreme agony; when the mind switched off all rational thought in a fight only to survive.

She should have gone to him, offered him some sort of womanly comfort or reassurance. But this was not the time for affection or soothing words. Nor would Eomer want them. This was now the time for decisive action.

Loti looked one last time into his eyes, blue as the sea in summer, and finding there his trust in her.

"Careful were you put that knife, you hear," was the last thing he told her, "If you slip, I won't be any good to anybody."

People were nothing more than flesh and blood and bone with a covering of skin, thin as a sheet of paper, but that skin was amazingly tough. She pressed hard, drawing down in one long quick motion, slicing him to the bone. It was nothing more than butchery she decided as the knife bit into and separated skin and muscle, spraying fine droplets of blood across her fingers. He gasped and yowled, a high pitched guttural noise from the back of his throat that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, his teeth grinding deep crescent marks into the leather strap. The leg convulsed in a spasm that spread like a shockwave over the rest of his body. Blood bubbled up, spilling out in long trickles that stained Theofrid's fingers and dripped to the ground in a rhythmic pitter pat like rain off the eves of a house. He cursed and threw back his head, huffing and snorting loudly as Loti poked and prodded, squeezing out any remaining pockets of pus, cutting away the blackened muscle or skin while Theofrid wiped the runnels of blood with a now thoroughly soaked towel.

The amount of blood loss was concerning. It was unlikely he would bleed to death, she hadn't cut anywhere near the femoral artery, but if loss of consciousness was a possibility so was shock. She pushed hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of blood across her forehead.

Theofrid covered the incision with the towel, applying even pressure. With the dead tissues excised, the wound was gaping and mangled, and would leave behind a jagged, ugly scar. Loti went swiftly to the desk, cleaning her hands and rinsing the blade once again, then thrusting it between the bars of the brazier, the fiery coals hissing and popping at the intrusion of cold steel.

Meanwhile, Eomer had subsided into a man shaped lump in his chair as she hurried outside and swung one of the kettles of boiling water off the fire with a stick.

"Where's she going?" he asked and then again with more insistence.

"Don't worry, man," she heard Eoin's reassureances, "She'll be back."

A moment later came the sounds of retching came from inside. He had barely eaten anything in days; how was there anything in his stomach to throw up? She hoped they had given him the chamber pot.

Wrapping an old towel around the handle, she hefted the hot kettle from its contrivance, lugging it inside.

But when Loti re-entered the tent with a kettle full of boiling hot water, Eomer, correctly interpreting her intentions, lost any remaining composure he'd tried so carefully to maintain. His eyes doubled in size, panic etched in the illness drawn lines of his face. No man is afraid of pain even the greatest of men and apparently, having several gallons of boiling water poured so close to his most vulnerable parts was not what he had bargained for. This was precisely the reason she hadn't elaborated on the details of the plan.

He spat out the bitten piece of leather someone had shoved back in his mouth

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply, tensed against the hands keeping him in his chair.

"I have to rinse it out to kill the evils that live there."

The shape of his mouth told her he was going to commence being inconveniently and stubbornly Rohirric. "I think I've changed my mind."

"Changed your mind?" Loti repeated, cutting her eyes to the where ten inches of raw, lacerated muscle lay underneath a blood soaked towel.

"Eomer," Wolf entreated, "just let her do it. It'll be over quick enough."

Settling a hand on his chest, Theofrid pushed him back into the chair; an innocent, non-threatening move that lit the bomb. He wrenched his arm out of Eothain's grasp, smacking Theo's hand away. Eoin and Eothian made simultaneous grabs at Eomer's arms and then the whole thing erupted into a name calling, punch throwing, testosterone fueled brawl! Loti edged closer, hoping to catch him off guard long enough to dump the contents of the kettle over his leg. Eomer, on the other hand, had the swordsman's awareness of everything going on around him. Just as Loti was about to seize what she thought was momentary distraction, one long, slender foot came out of the writhing mass of arms and legs, kicking her square in the hip. She stumbled, thrown off balance by the weight of the pot in her hand and fell ass over tea kettle to the ground. The kettle went skittering, dousing her hand and most of her arm in scaling hot water. Shrieking in pain, eyes filling with tears, the sensation of burning ate through her flesh, melting all the way to the bone. Wolf fisted a handful of Eomer's hair, yanking back his head as the other two twisted his arms behind his back, pinning him into the chair ridged and twitching with fury. Cradling her burned arm, she watched Theofrid get to his feet, rising up like a building out of the skyline, cock his arm and crack the King of Rohan across the face with the most vicious backhanded slap she'd ever seen or heard.

It all happened so fast Loti hadn't had time to register a reaction, but then again, neither had Eomer. His eyes rolled back and he shook himself hard, like a dog flinging off water.

One monstrous hand wrapped around Eomer's neck. "Listen to me, cocksucker," Theo warned through gritted teeth, "If you so much as blink between now and the time she's done, I swear I'll—" his non-throttling hand clamped down somewhat lower, squeezed. "Got it?"

Eomer made a low, visceral noise that Theo took for assent. One in that position has few other options.

"You alright?" He turned to Loti sitting wet and dazed amid the steaming, spilled contents of the kettle. "Is there more water?"

Loti nodded.

"Then go get it," he told her politely but with a firm hand on the situation, quite literally. "Best not to make him wait."

Moving like an automaton, she dusted herself off and raced to retrieve the other kettle, listening to the threats and exchange of words between the two giants.

"You like holding onto those, you queer fuck," Eomer taunted as Loti came back a moment later with more hot water.

"Is that how you treat your women?" Theo retorted, "You kick them around like back alley whores. No wonder you're still alone."

A red flush flooded Eomer's face. Like some storybook dragon he opened his mouth, ready to spit fire, only to have Theofrid cram the piece of leather back in it.

Fight or flight were the two choices a man had when confronted with impending danger. Whether the decision to fight was a conscious one or only a way to protect his injured pride, Eomer was making a proper job of it, bristling like a thistle from the hair on top of his head all the way to his cock, erect with berserk rage.

"Pour," Theo commanded, shoving one hand flat against Eomer's chest, the other clamping down on his knee.

"Theo, your hand—"

"Just pour," he said again, ignoring the warning.

Theofrid grunted and grimaced as the water sluiced in a scalding torrent over his hand but Eomer, who's flesh was exposed and sore convulsed in a delayed reaction of body shaking spasms, unable to pull away. He strained against the hands keeping him in the chair, the cords of his neck stretched, teeth grinding into the leather, the veins of his forearms popping beneath rolled up shirt sleeves as he dug his fingers into the arms of the chair. Suddenly the unnatural strength of a man punished beyond his physical limitations boiled up. Agonized and tortured, his face handsome face twisted in pain, Eomer surged forward against the press of hands and link of arms, spit out the strip of leather and bellowed a string of curse words and derogatory phrases that put any sailor she'd ever known to shame. As he relaxed panting, sides heaving and nostrils flaring like a horse after a race, all the while making grunting noises, she pulled the knife from the coals of the brazier.

The day was unbearably hot with not a whisk of wind. Inside the tent, the air was trapped and stagnant, hotter than the temperature outside thanks to the brazier and damp as a tub of wet laundry; hot steam rising in gauzy plumes off the ground like morning mist from the river.

She dabbed at a trickle of sweat rolling between her breasts. They were all sweating. Beads of it running into eyes or off the ends of noses, matting loose strands of hair to cheeks or necks, glistening in the men's beards. The odor of so many male bodies an acrid tang in her nose.

_I'm sorry_, she thought an instant before pressing the hot knife to the wound, smelling singed hair and the disturbingly appetizing aroma of roasting meat. Eomer jerked and jerked again shuddering and squirming as the hot metal seared him, held down by the unrelenting force of his closest friends. He let out a sound that could only be called a scream, smiting Loti like a dagger to the heart. And then, suddenly, he went very limp, tossed back his head and made a noise that was unmistakably a sob. No one would begrudge him a few tears. After days of little food or drink, physical and mental exhaustion, unending pain, opium dreams, the humiliating reliance on others, and the unknown, it was frustration, not pain, that had finally overtaken his vast supplies of pride. Eomer was given to great swings of emotion but everyman has his breaking point and he had long ago reached his.

She let the knife fall, carelessly rolling out of her fingers to the ground. Watching him, slump shouldered and hollow eyed, Loti wanted nothing more than to run to him, fling herself upon him and beg his forgiveness, hold his head against her breast, cradle him in the cup of her heart. But Eomer was a Horse Lord, a soldier, a king, a man, and she must take care for his injured pride.

The others let go and moved back, realizing he was no longer a threat to himself or anyone else. Eothain was the only one who remained, a hand upon his friend's left shoulder, squeezing. Seizing his face between her hands, she shook him slightly, forcing the bruised and bloodshot blue eyes to look at her, thumbing away two trailing tears. His beard grown longer than normal and was soft with an unmanly waviness to it under the skin of her palms. He regarded her through slitted eyes.

"You are not going to die!" She wasn't sure if this was a demand, an order, a request or a statement of fact. "Do you understand? You are not going to die. You are not going feel sorry for yourself. I will not allow it! You will get better! Do you hear? You will not die!" She gave him another shake, his head a heavy weight in her hands. "Eomer, did you hear me? Say something!"

He moaned, grumbling in his hoarse, exhaustion filled voice, "I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Her eyes searched his, seeking signs of the vitality she had once seen there, lest he slip into another bout of melancholy which might surely mean his death. "Anything else?"

His eyelashes weren't black, she noticed, but a kind of light brown, long and unusually thick for a man. The parts of his eyes she could see behind his half closed lids dropped and his frown turned upside down.

"I can see your tits."

Relieved, Loti patted his cheek, squelching the urge to punch him in gut.

"Ah, the old cock," Eothain jested, violently shaking his friend's shoulder, "he'll live to fight another day."

Up until then Loti hadn't heard the commotion going on outside, but there was a flash of movement in the corner of her eye; Theofrid striding quickly towards the door. An instant later the Master Healer came crashing through the door along with a handful of his lackeys.

"What the devil-?" he exclaimed, coming nose the chest with the giant.

Everyone in the tent was frozen into place as if they had been plucked out of reality and lodged into a still life painting. Except for the Master Healer's eyes… They darted from Eomer's men, to the desk laid with a healers impedimenta, to the brazier, burned down to glowing embers on a sweltering hot day, to Eomer sitting half naked with a bloody, ten inch long slash in his thigh, to the knife on the ground and, at last, to Loti, her clothing blood stained and wearing the guilty expression of a child caught stealing chocolate biscuits.

"You!" he pointed angrily, and made to move towards her. He was met with a bone jarring shove to the chest by Theofrid, throw off his feet and back into the knot of men behind, surprised and frightened.

"Leave off, Secyn," Eomer said calmly, having composed and roused himself enough to reclaim his authority, "I asked her to do it."

"But my Lord," he pleaded, shimmying his grab green homespun tunic back into place, "she's a murderess. What guarantees do I have that she's not trying to kill you again!"

Eomer cringed involuntarily at the use of formalities, preferring the use of his given name.

"She was. Once," he acknowledged with some harshness, the said more reasonably, "She's treated me before."

"Only because you insisted your men be treated before you! You're not some young Rider to be sacrificed for the greater good, my Lord. You should be tended by a proper healer, not some peasant girl novice!"

It would gall Eomer to think his life worth more than another's.

"Secyn…"

Things were heating up, especially when Eomer used that tone of voice.

"You're the King!" the Master Healer added logically.

"That's right, I am King, and if I trust her, then so should you. Come and look at it if you want," he suggested, gesturing, but not looking at his leg, the Valar be thanked. He'd probably thrown up again.

Glaring at each other like two dogs over a bone, Secyn stepped cautiously around the giant to examine the incision on the top of Eomer's thigh. Obsequiously, Loti handed him the brandy bottle and a towel with a smile.

"For your hands, sir."

"Mmhmm," he said, and sloshed the liquor over his fingers. "Tell me what you've done here, child." Pompous old thing he was, but care for his patient was his foremost concern.

Good novice that she was, Loti told him the details, including the use of boiling water and the hot knife as a cautery while he catechized her about the procedure, receiving unspecific 'mmhmm's' in return for her answers.

At the conclusion of the post operative examination, Secyn the Master Healer said a little too defensively, "Black rot does not always go away with surgical debridement. If it is an aggressive or acute form of the infection, it will return within days." He turned to Loti. "If that happens, I'm sure you would like to assist with the amputation of the leg."

This was no question. It was mocking, a challenge. She swallowed hard, a bag of pebbles at the base of her throat, eyes raised to him in blank comprehension. Of course, she would. She would never abandon Eomer in his hour of greatest need, but she couldn't make her voice or lips form the words.

"She would," Eomer answered for her, very dryly.

In an effort to be conciliatory, Loti offered Secyn the curved suture needle, a length of cat gut threat already laced and dangling.

"Oh, no," he denied, falsely modest, "You've seen fit to demonstrate your competence thus far. I'm interested to see how you'll fair getting sixty or seventy stitches in that." Smugly, his head bobbed, indicating the mangled, irregular slice in the swollen, fevered muscle that was supposed to be Eomer's thigh.

So was Loti.

XXX

It took sixty seven stitches to be precise, and a teeth gritting, nerve racking job it was too, with the Master Healer looming over her every stitch like a disapproving seamstress. Eomer hadn't said anything beyond the occasional mumbled curse word. The only exception coming when she knelt in front of him between his legs.

He'd laughed through his nose, the efforts of the day leaving him once again weak and dazed. "You on your knees in front of me and my cock not even in your mouth," he joked, and then she'd stuck him, and enjoyed it, just the once before darning him like a pair of holey old socks.

Now, Eomer and Loti were alone, everyone having taken their leave a little while ago with well wishes and back slaps, and Eothain, the kind soul that he was, had gone off to find something for Eomer to eat.

Having made a poultice of mashed garlic, she finished dressing the wound with lengths of linen toweling and tied it off, infinitely glad the whole ordeal was over. She exhaled loudly and skirted Eomer, ready to clean the tent, wash her clothes and herself and be done with the whole damn day. But Eomer had different ideas and reached for her hand as she passed by.

His fingers were very hot on her skin, the beat of his heart fast but steady in the tips of his fingers. He was fevered and the shirt he wore clung to his body, wringing with sweat.

"Ruthless compassion," he said simply, gazing up at her with heavy lidded eyes. His voice was thick with weariness, but his willingness to talk was a good sign.

"I only offered you the same thing you offered me," she remarked, matter of factly.

"And what was that?"

"Do as I say or die."

He snorted, using that "hmph" sound that sometimes passed as a laugh with him. "Are you glad you listened?"

The grip on her arm had slackened, his hand slipping, the calluses of his palm strangely rough and smooth on her skin. As his fingers slid lightly through hers, Loti crooked a finger, hooking one of his, jiggling their hands playfully.

"Sometimes. And then there are the other times when I want to wring your neck. Are _you_ glad _you_ listened?"

Seeming embarrassed, Eomer looked away. "You think I'm a coward."

"A coward? You? Why? Because you're afraid of the same things regular men are afraid of? I don't think any man could sit by and let his balls be poached like eggs in boiling water. Or any other part of him, come to think of it. Hmmm," she pondered teasingly, "You're made of flesh and blood after all!"

"Mmhmm," he rumbled, doubting.

"You are very brave. Really." She jiggled their linked fingers again, setting their hands swinging. "I didn't, ah, burn your soft parts, did I?"

"No, Bema be thanked, but it still hurts like a bitch. I could use a bit of womanly comfort, if you have any left." The crooked, eye crinkling smile was back, if diminished a little from rakish insolence by fatigue.

"Oh, I'll see if I can find some." Releasing their linked fingers, she smoothed the wet tendrils of hair from his face, cupped a sweat damp cheek and kissed him softly on the forehead. "Better?"

His forefinger traced the boney ridge of Loti's, the feel of it ticklish on the back of her hand, looping his finger around hers once again.

"You wouldn't consider kissing me a little lower." One cool blue eye winked, flirtatiously.

"No. Did you want me to go and find someone who will?"

Their eyes met and, for one awkward instant, they shared a moment of intense awareness, each feeling the thrum of the other through their linked fingertips like lightning flashing between clouds in a storm, the sizzle boiling the blood in their veins.

The finger circling hers tightened, intent. Loti wanted to avert her eyes, pull back, break the spell he'd cast on her. But she was trapped, lured by the dazzle of his eyes, the charm of his smile, the reassurance of his touch; lured like a soldier to battle, like a sword to flesh, like the river to the sea, like a…man to a woman.

Valar's truth, even haggard and mostly dead looking he was handsome in a way that made her heart ache. Much like his sword, a man's most basic and powerful weapon, he wore his confidence, his sexuality for all to see.

Eomer took a breath, opened his mouth to say something.

"Ah-hem!"

Loti's heart plummeted into her belly, the bubble of intimacy isolating them from the outside world, bursting. She hopped back, startled, discreetly disentangling her fingers and her feelings, a wave of heat, not entirely blamable on the outside temperature, screaming up her face. Eomer took a casual interest in the bandage around his leg, picking at it, playing the incident off like nothing had happened, a shy smile on his lips.

And nothing had happened! What had Eomer wanted to say? What would have happened if Eothain hadn't appeared just then?

And how long had he been standing there, the eavesdropping, gossiping ass?

Long enough, evidently. His eyes darted from Loti, flushed, anxious-faced and shifty eyed, to Eomer, affecting cool, manly indifference. He grinned obnoxiously and, holding up three foaming mugs, lifted both eyebrows.

"Beer, anyone? Seems a little hot in here!"


	15. Chapter 15 Meditations

A/N: Hello again! Look at me updating in a timely manner! Thanks to everybody who has read and those who have mark this as your fav story or me as your fav author. Please feel free to leave me feedback as it is important for the writer to know what her audience is thinking.

Occasionally I do some free writing at the end of my chapters when I am typing them in word. If you ever see something completely out of place at the end of a chapter, Let Me Know! I've done this twice now and it makes it confusing for the reader I'm sure! Thanks to Thanwen for catching the last one.

I'm thinking the next chapter might be written in about the same time, but it's hard to tell with me!

* * *

To EomerKing

From Lady Eowyn

_E, _

_You are the most infuriating man!_

_I have found your most recent and wholly upsetting letter to Faramir, detailing the your latest adventure whilst rummaging his desk for a few coins with which to go shopping (and, yes, before you ask, Faramir does know about it. I rummage his desk quite often). _

_News of your impending death has certainly taken me by surprise, although, knowing you as I do, brother, I do not see why it should! You have behaved in this manner your entire life. I am not sure if it is out of hero worship of father, selfish, vainglorious notions or something bred in the bone that causes you to behave with such recklessness, such lack of caution, such blatant disregard for your position and for those who love you. _

_I am quite out of my mind with worry for you and with anger. Your penchant for understatement is all of that. You would regard a missing hand as a minor inconvenience. Of all the idiotic, fool hearty things to do! Think you a cat with extra lives to be wasted? I swear to you, if you should die I will not bring you home, but leave you out in the open to be pecked at by the crows and disemboweled by whatever beasts should run across your miserable body! A most dishonorable burial, indeed, and no more than you deserve!_

_What is this notion you have that I would 'brain you with an ale pot' as you so eloquently put it? Is your ability to think coherently injured also? Such ridiculous nonsense. Doing so would be a waste of perfectly good beer. Right now I would not even waste the whiskey anointing your head upon your death. _

_I see my dearest Faramir has come in. He too has received the rough side of my tongue for not disclosing the entirety of the situation. He did not find the activity pleasurable and would prefer that said tongue be put to better uses. I am far too angry to write any more at this time, and, in an effort to conserve paper (and since he was going to write to you in any case), he will continue this letter until I have had an opportunity to clear my mind._

_Brother,_

_I must say, upon writing that word I felt an odd tickle race up my spine; a mixture of elation and melancholy. I believe it is the first time I have addressed you as such and hope you will not take offense at my familiarity. Somehow, I think you will not. I will greatly enjoy having a brother again, and it is my sincerest hope you will think of me as such yourself. I was raised to believe a man needed a brother, if only to defend his weak side in battle. _

_Your sister, a lovely and most docile creature, is she not, (she stands over my shoulder as I write this) begs me tell you the allowance you provide her is not sufficient and embarrassingly small for a woman attending court in Gondor. I have kindly extended her the use of my considerable wealth to be spent as lavishly as she sees fit, but, alas, has declined; I would greatly enjoy being taken advantage of… _

_Of course, her reasoning is sound and I must agree with her. You are her brother and her guardian and your duty is to support her until she is properly wed and/or you are penniless and destitute (Never argue with a woman, Eomer. They are always right, especially when brandishing silver candlesticks over one's head.). _

_Well, that pressing bit of business dealt with, and your sister safely away to afternoon tea, I have the chance to discuss other more important topics (or potentially less important, depending on whether this is my point of view or Eowyn's). _

_I, too, share your concern over this black powder business. Evil is not necessarily confined within the borders of our enemies. It can be found both abroad and at home, although, I must say, I find the prospect of it lurking unknown within my own country disturbing. I realize this might be asking much, but if you could find out where the powder is being made I could authorize men to set out and destroy its manufacture. Doubtless it is hidden in some secret location so as to avoid notice. Unfortunately, I cannot, without just cause, start plundering villages and burning down barns in search of something that may or may not exist. Even though that avenue does have some appeal, discretion is often the better part of valor, my friend._

_We live in perilous times and peace cannot be achieved without both the destruction of all the world's evils and the subjugation of our enemies. It is the nature of men to want more, to strive for more, to create a better existence for himself and for those who come after him and this is an attribute to be nurtured and encouraged if we are to remain a civilized society. After all, it is from this desire that we have modern achievements such as roads and cities, sewers and libraries, and my personal favorite, bathing houses. But to take from another what he believes to be his, purely out of discontent or __covetousness regarding another's advantages, successes, possessions__; these are the seeds of tyranny and conflict from which war is born. Conflict is the inherent nature of Man, be those conflicts political, social, cultural or financial. Peace is difficult, nay, impossible to achieve when so many want what is not theirs to take. Sadly, I do not think we will see true peace in our lifetime nor will our children in theirs._

_Is not war simply that, the taking back what you believe to be yours. Peace is a fine thing to speak of in taverns and council meetings and in battlefield surrenders, but too few are willing to pay the price it takes to achieve. _

_We, Gondor, are exceedingly grateful to have an ally such as yourself, and I, the pleasure of your friendship. You are a great warrior, like my brother with whom I believe you had an acquaintanceship. Legions of men flock to your banner, follow you because they believe in your abilities as a leader, die for the love of you. Nations bend the knee to you, out of respect and out of fear. I wish at times that I possessed these qualities. True, I was a good Ranger and a fair soldier, but, alas, my most formidable skills lie elsewhere; in scholarly things like books and knowledge, politics and charity work. We, you and I, are as different as Boromir and I were (and given your collective dislike for politics and sitting still you often remind me of him. You were made for action, as was he) and yet we share something equally as important. _

_I do not presume to tell you how to live your life, nor how to command your men or lead your country. If you are anything like your sister, and you are, it would be like to pushing a bull up a hill; little progress made but with a considerable amount of snoring, kicking and goring. I ask nothing for myself or Gondor, for that matter, but for the love you bear your sister, the woman who would be my wife, please, go careful. I have suffered through the loss of one brother; I do not wish to do so again. Nor do I wish to watch Eowyn suffer it either, knowing how much she cares for you, how proud she is of you. _

_Mayhap, I over step my bounds. Perhaps the loss of your foster brother has already taught you this, but I feel it necessary to remind you of that pain in any case. _

_Smart man that I am, I will it to leave your sister to have the last word. _

_With respect, I remain your most obedient and faithful servant, _

_F. _

_Brother, _

_I have picked up my pen and set it down a hundred times in the last two days, trying to finish the missive. Faramir, in his infinite wisdom, has counseled that I write from the heart. He is a man of even temperament and possessing the thoughtful perspective I sometimes lack with regard to our, yours and mine, relationship. I thank the gods for giving him to me, if only because he keeps me from doing something embarrassing, like dangling my feet in the fountain of the white tree or belching at the table during state dinners. _

_He has reminded me, none to subtly, that people who live in glass houses should not throw stones and, as much as I loathe admitting he is right, I have, in the past, also behaved recklessly. I have sounded like a fishwife and treated you like a child, and do apologize for it, although in my defense, if I did not care so much about you, I would not be so upset. _

_It is with much sadness that I tell you I do not remember much about Father, I was so young and he frequently away from home. The memories I do hold of him are fond ones. I confess to being quite envious of you as a child. He was so proud of you and you so much older than I; you remember him so much more vividly. I have been told quite often how striking your resemblance is to him in both your physical features and your manner. And because of that, I fear you will share his fate. _

_I am a woman and your sister; I am allowed to worry. _

_It is only because I worry for you that I beg of you to settle down. Find a wife. Father some children (I am beginning to think I will never have nieces and nephews to spoil). Dote upon your children's children. I know you would cease your reckless ways if you had those who depended upon you for their survival. Believe me when I say, it is not so bad, this life of caution; the inevitable result being you will be alive long enough to have a future to look forward to. _

_Love is the greatest balm to any sadness. Remember, brother, love of you was once all that kept me alive. _

_I look forward to hearing from you soon._

_Your most loving and affectionate sister,_

_Wyn_

_Post Script:_

_I have done what you asked with regard to that nice man, Asif and his daughter. And yes, I was compassionate, but with my usual intransigence. I did send them north to Edoras with a heart as heavy as theirs must have been, knowing that they will likely be forever separated from those they loved. _

_As sister to the King, it is my privilege and duty to assist you whenever possible. Please remember the hospitality of my household is always at your service. _

XXX

Four days later his fever broke and almost immediately he did the manliest thing he could think of—he started complaining.

He was hungry. He didn't have an appetite. He was tired. He didn't want to sleep. His oatmeal was too moist. It wasn't moist enough. His leg hurt. His head hurt. It was too hot. The sheets needed to be washed. He needed to be washed. The water was too warm. He needed something to do. He didn't want to sit around anymore. His stitches itched. His back itched. The poultice made him smell like a barrel of garlic pickles. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to sit up. The tea was too strong. He wanted company. He didn't want to see anybody.

Loti had been the personification of patience—at first—bringing him tea and biscuits, clucking and fussing over him like a mother hen with a sickly chic. But after two weeks of listening to him find fault with everything from the color of the sky to the size of his feet, she was ready to boot him out of the nest for good. He wasn't doing it on purpose—well, no, he was doing it on purpose but only because he enjoyed her reaction. If only she knew how it entertained him to see her lips disappear, rolled tightly together under her teeth and her hand fist on her hip just before she told him to knock it off. It was nice to have a woman around to take care of him, mother him, and occasionally yell at him.

"Why does do the healers have to come and look at me every day? Why can't you just do it? They make me feel like a specimen in a jar." he grumbled, his lower half naked and wrapped in a linen bed sheet.

"Because that's the unspoken deal I have with the Master Healer. He comes to examine you every day, and I don't get stoned to death," she explained again, stripping the bed and throwing the sheets into a pile with his dirty clothes for washing. "They don't hurt you, do they? The healers, I mean, when they examine you."

"No, but having all of them looking and poking and touching me shrivels my privates."

"Whereas I…?" Her eyebrow arched inquisitively.

Eomer shifted in his seat, making a discomforted face. Whereas her touch gave him a pleasant tingling sensation beneath his balls, the feeling of them growing heavy, swelling with his seed.

"Mmhmm," she said, dryly. "I'm surprised you didn't say 'Get over here, lassie, and lift up your skirts and I'll show you' or 'You make my cock stand up straight as a tent pole' or 'Let's play knights and villains and I'll run you through with my sword.'" She let her accent broaden into the thick colloquial sing song of Rohan's back country. "Valar, Eomer, what more could you complain about?"

"Come over here and lift up your skirts and I'll show you what I have to complain about." Grinning widely, he winked, waggling his sandy colored brows, eyes gleaming. "We'll play hide the sausage instead!"

Eomer thought himself quite funny, but he was lacking for entertainment and found just about anything would hold his curiosity. A few days before he'd lain in bed on his stomach watching two of the enormous varieties of local beetle fight over a scrap of bread he'd thrown on the ground. He'd just wagered with himself that the beetle on the left was going to win when the death match ended, his own personal variety of Haradrim girl sweeping them out the door.

Unfortunately, Loti didn't find his jesting all that clever and her lips creased into a line as she prodded the mountain of dirty laundry with a foot. It slumped over in a heap.

"No, I will not play hide the sausage with you," and stepping lightly around the jumble mound of sweat stained bed clothes, mismatched stockings, and grungy shirts, lowered herself daintily into the chair behind her desk. "You can do your laundry yourself."

This was not a chore Eomer could not accomplish with any ease, at least, not at the moment with the big muscle of his leg barely held together with a length of crusty thread. He could clean his own clothes, had no aversion to it, but a woman's way of doing laundry—the hot, wet, backbreaking job of boiling, lifting, rinsing, wringing and hanging—was far more labor intensive than the male idea of washing clothes—dunking everything in a basin of luke warm water and putting them back on half dry and wrinkled or, in most cases, just not doing it at all.

As it was, he had no clean clothes, which was why he was currently wearing nothing but a sheet. No matter how nice the thought of finally wearing clean clothing might be, the prospect of standing naked so near the laundry cauldron and its gallons of hissing, steaming water most definitely shriveled his privates.

"I apologize," he mumbled.

"Hmm? What was that?" She was gloating, relishing his apology.

"I said, I apologize," he said, not sounding apologetic in any way. "Now, would you please go? I don't want to be naked if nobody else is going to be naked with me."

"There's plenty of people around," she started to suggest, "I could get one of them to be naked with you."

"I want to be naked with a woman, not another man! Why don't you take your clothes off and we'll be naked together, huh?"

"And do what?" she asked, hotly.

"Well, you could just walk around and bend over a lot for starters."

Amused or disgusted, it was hard to tell with her lately, she scooped up the ball of dirty washing and swept out the door in one fluid motion, stuffing sheets down under her chin and dropping socks along the way.

He scratched himself abstractedly, then reached down, cupping his balls, their soft weight heavy in his hand. She could swaddle him in wool and carry him in a sling across her breast like a mother with an infant and he wouldn't mind at all. Not for the first time he marveled at the difference between men and women and thanked the stars for it.

Not surprisingly, a few days later she had him up and walking. She'd taken notice of his boredom and fidgetiness, his need to be productive, to do something. He was a man of action, one who thrived on accomplishing tasks, even if that action was only walking to the corral and back every day, it was far preferable to sitting on his ass or lying in bed staring up into the tent's vaulted canopy, thinking about women and various types of sexual relations with them.

In the beginning, it was Eothain who'd come to walk with him, and they'd go staggering off, arms around each other for support, lurching and side winding like two drunkards after a late night at their favorite alehouse. It was tough going at first. He was weak and tired easily, favoring the injured leg for fear of tearing the stitches. The exercise was good for him, insisted the healers. It would help strengthen the muscle, eliminating the pronounced limp while improving flexibility so it would not pain him in the future. Choose not to, and his thigh would stiffen, knotting and hardening with scar tissue, leaving him essentially a cripple. Eomer walked.

Eventually, though, the stitches were removed, his energy and stamina returned and it was Loti who took over the duty of accompanying him on what had become ritualistic strolls through camp. She talked, a lot, and Eomer found this rather amusing. For the most part, they discussed mundane things, army business and the like, but when the opportunity presented itself, she'd prattle on animatedly about dresses and shopping and other girlie things he didn't for the life of him understand. It didn't really bother him as he supposed it would some men. Being close to a younger sister had long ago left him immune to these sorts of frivolous, unmasculine, and thoroughly uninteresting topics. Outwardly, Eomer smiled at her enthusiasm—how one day she would own a pair of high heeled slippers or real jewels—but inside it gave him a little twist of the heart. To have spent a lifetime longing for such simple things, heeled shoes and gemstone earrings, and yet it was likely she never would own them; not here in this hell hole, certainly not serving as a maid in his household.

Perhaps he should consider finding her a wealthy husband or, gods forbid, a Gondorian nobleman to wed so she could finally have those things she'd always wanted. Loti was perfectly capable of managing a household, caring for a husband, children, servants, tenants. Men would come pouring out of the wood work like termites if they knew of her beauty, the dubious nature of her past notwithstanding. The sizable dowry he had promised to provide would surely be an alluring enticement for a man looking to find favor with the King of the Mark…

Would Loti be upset with him for not consulting her, for thinking only of her best interest? Would she go without hesitation into an arranged marriage, believing it her duty, trusting he had made a good match? Or be furious, unable to forgive him, the dream of finding her true love, lost forever. Women were funny that way sometimes; unpredictable, like two people living in one body. The other question Eomer had to ask himself was—could _he_ bear to be without _her_? The help she provided, the counsel she gave, the touches of womanly comfort she offered that he so badly needed.

What would've become of her had he not come along? A life of whoring and misery, for sure. What else was there? A life of being beaten by angry, drunken men who cared nothing for the woman within, who saw her only as a place to find their pleasure? Her belly swollen with the bastards of men she'd only known for one night? Would she have met her death by some violent means?

He should ask her, Eomer decided, let Loti choose for herself if this was what she wanted, if she wanted to leave camp, leave them, abandon him to another life. A better life. Wasn't that why he's taken her in, to give to her the freedom to choose? It was for the best; he would ask.

But he didn't ask.

It wasn't that he couldn't find another secretary. There were plenty of competent, educated men who could step in and take over her duties. All of his officers could read and write, Eomer could send to Edoras requesting a literate man as a replacement. Or he could send word to Faramir or Aragron; either of them could provide a trustworthy administrative type out of his office.

He didn't ask because he needed to keep her close, needed to know she was safe. She was a strong headed, obstinate woman, but still a woman living in a man's world. Terrible things could befall an unmarried woman out there, alone, with no man to shelter or take heed for her well being. Eomer had seen it first hand, as a boy, as a man. For the first time, he saw the wisdom in the Haradrim practice of every woman having a man. Not the culture of misogyny or virtual enslavement of their women, he could never reconcile his conscience to those practices, but the older more basic desires of a man to defend what was his, the need to keep his wealth close; it was those ideas he understood. A woman needed a man for protection, for survival. A man was the shield of his woman, defender of his family, and her love, her trust in him, the sword with which he slew the enemy. Was there really any other reason to fight, to make war, to die, but for a woman?

The girl was his responsibility now, given over to his care, to hold, to keep safe. He hadn't been able to do it for his mother or his sister or so many others, but by the gods, pain in his ass or no, he would give his title, his land, his wealth to see that no harm came to her ever again.

And if that made him selfish in some bizarre, twisted way… Well, then, to fuck with it all! He hadn't wanted any of it in the first place.

XXX

The mist rose off the river in ribbons, steaming like plumes of chimney smoke against the morning's dusky lavender sky. Just before dawn, it was cool down by the riverbank, the air smelling sweetly of grass, dew drenched wild flowers, and mud, fresh and fertile. Choirs of birds chirped and rattled loudly in the drooping branches of the willow overhead, their excitement heralding the coming of the sun.

Eomer made no move to hide from the damp cloud of fog as it boiled over the landscape covering everything in a delicate, ghostly gauze. Tiny droplets of mist condensed on the leather of his breast plate, on the metal of sword and chain mail, and clung doggedly to his beard, the waves in his hair crinkling up like the folds of a fan in the humidity.

It was a quiet place, a far walk from the hubbub of horses and people and work, and a good retreat when he couldn't sleep, which was just about every night. With no business to take care of, no paperwork to worry about, no ego fueled fights to resolve, he could be alone and think; two things he did a lot of lately.

There was a rustle of breeze over head stirring the tentacle-like branches of the willow and the bands of fog rolled, curling over on itself like a wave upon the seashore. It was a warm breeze in contrast to the refreshing coolness of the mist and Eomer was beginning to see what Loti meant about the changing of the weather. He was of the land, a farmer, and therefore keenly attuned to the meteorological shiftings of the seasons. Unlike spring and summer, where the sky had been a beautiful dome of crystal blue, the afternoons were now filled with boiling white clouds towering like marble pillars into the heavens. If watched long enough, he could see them expanding, blowing up like a bladders before bursting and collapsing under its own immense weight. There was a feeling of expectation in the air, of some monumentous change that didn't come with the ferocious here-and-gone thunderstorms that tore over the Riddermark in the spring and early summer, and just as hard to define. Was it a heaviness? A pressure? A thickening of the atmosphere?

And speaking of thickening…

He rubbed a hand over his cheek, scratching compulsively for the ten thousandth time. Normally kept close clipped, his beard had grown out considerably in the last six weeks since his injury, and now it itched like a fiend in the heat; the coarse, wavy hairs looking like nothing so much as a startled hedgehog stuck to his face. Ghaw! He hoped it wasn't lice! Well, and what if it was? There was nothing he could do about it and he wasn't ready to clip it back just yet, not when the Haradrim lasses found it so exotic, liking the soft tickle of it against their olive skin. Besides, Eomer thought darkly, dead men didn't grow beards or itch…so he shouldn't complain.

That thought always gave him a cold grue in the pit of the stomach. Being prepared for death or meeting it without fear was one thing, wanting to die was another all together. There were times in his life when he's wanted to, when he didn't know if he could wake to face another endless day, but oddly enough, this had not been one of those times. The pain he'd experienced was only pain of the body; bodies healed and pain went away. He could endure that kind of pain. It was the pain of the heart, the kind that leaked into the soul, contaminating it, which had nearly destroyed him on several occasions.

He hadn't wanted to die, but had come close.

He'd wandered through the shadow of the void, his senses all a jumble yet each one highly sensitized, feeling heavy yet light as air, moving but standing still, lost but knowing exactly where he was going, himself yet not himself at all. There was no light in the shadow and quiet, so very quiet, the only sound a voice—in his head, in his ears?—sweetly pitched and soothing, calling to him in the dark, urging him forward.

He found her after a time, shimmering silver like wavering moonlight in a night black pool. She had been very beautiful in her heavy velvet gown, hair loose, a wheat blonde tumble down her back, the regal tilt of the head and those strong, bold features of the House of Eorl prominent on her still young face.

Had she smelled, he wondered? If she had he didn't know. Everything in his head had been a confusion, all a mixed up mess of words and emotions, but the yeasty scents of baking that clung to her skirts and the sharp, tang of the dyes that were used for dying cloth always conjured her memory.

They stared at each other for a long time, each absorbing the details of the other, reconciling the present with the past; her taking in his colossal height and the broad muscular body of the warrior he had become and he the delicateness of her hands, the softness of her blue green eyes turned up to him in maternal astonishment as though she'd never considered he might have grown up. Not more than an arm's length away, for Eomer, it was like a lifetime.

Eomer thought his mouth had worked, attempting to speak, but no words came out. What did one say to a loved one dead these many years? In the end, he needn't say anything at all.

_Mother,_ he thought and reached out to embrace her, _I've missed you._

She didn't draw back, but neither did she step into his arms_. I've missed you, too, darling,_ and she lifted her hand to his face, stopping short of touching him, tracing the outlines of head and ear and jaw in the air. Clearly she had no wish to be touched and Eomer made no further move to do so lest the specter of his mother disappear like mist betwixt his fingers.

The silence of the void settled upon them again, awkward and uncomfortable, like two strangers meeting for the first time.

The stillness had caused yet another question to form, unbidden. Why had she come, for surely she didn't dwell in the in between, banished from eternal rest like the Men of the Mountains? Had she, the woman who gave him life, been sent to guide him to the Great Hall, so that he might take his place amongst his forefathers, the other mighty Kings of the Riddermark? If so, he hadn't wanted to delay. He had wanted once again to be with those he had loved and lost, his father, his uncle, his cousin, or those ancestors he deeply respected, his grandfather, Thengel, Helm the one they called Hammerhand, the first King of the Mark from whom Eomer had decended, Eorl, and his son, Brego, but most of all, the man his people called the Beloved, Brytta.

He was shaken then with a sudden and overpowering awareness, a buzzing something a kin to fear racing up his backbone and the realization that he stood the presence of something far more powerful than himself. Letting his eyes drop from his mother's, he'd turned his head and looked straight into the inscrutable face of his father.

Eomer's pet name as a little boy had been Little E, his father, for obvious reasons, called Big E. He could remember gaping up worshipfully at this glamorous man who'd fathered him, playing knights in front of the kitchen hearth with the horses and soldiers that Eomund had carved for him as a Yule gift, wondering if he would ever be that tall. And now, he stood before his hero looking eye to eye with him for very first time.

As a child, Eomer had known his father as the distributor of fair justice and the one who spoiled his supper with sweets when his mother or the cook wasn't looking. As a young man he had come to know his father in a different way, as a soldier, through stories told by the men who served under him; stories of Eomund's unshakable loyalty, of his charisma and leadership, and of a slow burning temper that rose like the wind just before a thunderstorm, unpredictable and frightening.

Unlike his mother Eomund glowed with the radiance of gold instead of silver and, although aged by both time and battle, he was still proud as Morgoth and equally as fierce. Taking his position as Marshall of the Mark with utmost seriousness, he had been clad, as always, in full Rohirric regalia including sword, dirk, knife and battered shield, slung across his back. There was only one word for him, Eomer decided. Magnificent.

Often, Eomer had heard the older men speak of how closely he resembled his father in looks as much as force of personality, but now, with maturity and the passage of time, he knew those stories to be true. It was like looking into a mirror. Besides their shared height, both father and son had the same wavy gold hair, broad shoulders and stern set of the jaw, the fleckless ice blue eyes and relaxed, slightly off kilter stance, fists clutched protectively over the pommels of their swords. In another time, they might have been mistaken for brothers instead of father and son.

His father's gaze had cast over his son appraisingly, and Eomer unconsciously straightened up, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin, readying himself for inspection. The eyes, so like his own, rested on his forehead and he repressed the urge to pat around on top of his head, only now feeling the representation of his office, the warm weight of gold around his head. Then his father had nodded, a quick bob of the head in approval, the barest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes bright, swelling with pride over his only son.

Eomund, in typical Rohirric laconicness said, "You're a man now, I see."

He was scowling, but Eomer thought this was a forced expression, because the corner of his father's compressed mouth twitched again.

Even though he'd been unable to form words for his mother, he did so out of respect for his father. "Yes, sir." And his own pride gushed forth in a huge, relieved smile.

His mother laid a hand on her husband's sleeve, then, and he'd turned to her, the deep cut frown on his forehead replaced with tenderness. There was a singularity about them, like the bond between magnets and iron, beyond which even death could not break; their glow somehow individual yet whole, complete yet unfinished without the other. Eomer could feel their love for each other and their love for him. It was a vibration, beyond the palpating rhythm of his heart like the song of souls singing out and he another voice in the melody. Like a bar of sunlight, their love spread over him, warm and bright. He was the legacy of this song, born of their bond; of two made one, blood of their blood, bone of their bone.

How long had it been since he had felt such happiness, such unconditional love?

That had been when he'd made the decision to stay. He had love and family here. There was no reason to go back. If this was to be his fate, he would face it with gladness.

Eomer extended a hand to his mother, palm up in supplication. "Take me with you."

This time she did draw back, not so much in horror or disgust, more like reluctance.

"Please," he insisted, putting the hand out a little further, "Take it. I'm ready." And he was, if just a little scared of the unknown.

But she shook her head.

Eomer felt dizzy, as if a bottomless pit had opened up beneath his feet, swallowing him whole. Why wouldn't she take his hand? Was he to spend eternity here, wondering alone through the shadow of the void as a punishment, lost and separated forever from the ones he loved?

Panic welled up like a spring, cold and prickly. He couldn't be left alone here, he simply couldn't! Desperate, he turned pleading to his father. "Da, please, make her take my hand. Take it!" His arm was fully extended, reaching.

Eomund gave his son a pitying look, the words clanging like a thousand cast iron bells in his head. "No. You cannot stay_."_

Understanding where his own stubbornness had come from, Eomer went to his mother again, almost frantic now. "Please! Don't leave me here! I want to go with you. There's nothing left for me there!"

He'd seen the look on her face, anguished, in need of his touch, to have the son that was lost, close to her once again. Furtively, one of her hands twitched, then defiantly thrust out from where it had been clutched against her breast. Before Eomer had the chance to put his hand in hers, Eomund snatched at his wife's wrist, pulling back her open hand and gathering her into his arms.

"You cannot stay," insisted his father, demanding compliance. He wasn't a man to be trifled with or contradicted, Eomund.

Confusion and heartache were quickly becoming feelings of anger, his father's words and tone of voice the kindling that would ignite the son's rage. His mouth tightened, the small muscles of his jaw clenched, the creases of his nose quivering.

The glare he set on his mother was withering. "You would abandon me again? Leave me here, alone, to fend for myself like you did before?" he snarled, hurt.

Theodwyn's champion, Eomund would never stand idle while another man was disrespectful to his wife, even if that other man was his own son.

"You might be a king, boy, but she's still your mother! And I'm still your father! Don't think you're not too old for me to slap those words out of your mouth. You cannot stay, it's not your time and that is the end of it."

Shamed, not without cause, Eomer watched as Eomund returned to tend his wife's stamped on feelings, smoothing her back, brushing his lips lightly over her forehead, bending to whisper softly in her ear. Might he reach down and squeeze her ass in affectionate flirtation, in that way he had witnessed his father do so often. Seeing such intimacy, such tenderness between them made Eomer feel guilty, as if he had invaded their privacy, like the boy who carelessly flings open the bedroom door while his parents are otherwise occupied. They gazed at each other with open and unrepentant joy, pleased only to have one another.

Properly soothed, his mother addressed him again, questioning. "Is there really nothing for you there?"

She was an unusually tall woman, coming up to her husband's shoulder so that his chin rested easily on top of her head without the need to stoop.

Feeling hollow as a drum, he had shaken his head, eyes hooded under his lids. "I did what you asked, I took care of Eowyn. She has her own life now. She's happy."

"And you, Eomer," she prompted, his name so sweet on her lips, "are you happy?"

He took a long, slow breath and said very, very softly, "No. I'm…lonely."

"And the women you lie with…?" The question trailed off unfinished but he knew what was implied.

The women he'd lain with… Whores, unhappily married women, girls who wanted to sleep with him only because of who he was, stuck up noblewomen he'd fucked purely out of hate or spite. Dozens upon dozens of women and five, maybe six, he'd ever really cared about.

He snorted, self deprecatingly. "I didn't want them and they didn't want me. Not for more than one night at least."

"Darling," the endearment a balm to the soreness of his chest, "do you really believe there's no happiness for you? Love has not abandoned you. You've abandoned love. Listen…Can you hear? She's calling to you."

Calling to him? Who? Pausing, Eomer listened, and heard nothing but the overwhelming silence the blackness brought with it.

"I don't… I don't hear anything." He was afraid. What if he couldn't her her?

"She's there. Listen with your heart, darling. Let her in."

On faith alone, he had closed his eyes, taken the buried ache of all that he'd loved and lost, and let it go. He turned inward, seeing a light behind his eyes that wasn't the other-earthly glow of his parents. A warm, luminous light that pulsed in fingers and toes, burning as is made its way through muscle, past tendons and bone, flowing liquid as quicksilver towards his heart.

It came as a whisper out of the dark, his name, the breath of it a caress against his ear.

Then he'd become heavy limbed, the tips of his fingers tingling, the rush of what must have been his blood thrumming once again in his veins; he was alive—here, there—somewhere and wanting her, wanting her very badly. His heart beat loud, so loud in his ears but the faintest of whispers came again over the top of his thundering blood, the breathless sound of it ecstasy.

"Eomer…"

And he had been happy for the first time in a long time.

But when the voice didn't come again, he had felt curiously rent as though some very important part of him—his body, who he was?—had been lost. He was an incomplete jigsaw puzzle, suddenly, missing pieces, the picture full of holes.

When at last he opened his eyes, the faces of his parents were suffused with both happiness and regret.

"She will love you if you let her," his mother told him, still wrapped in the arms of her beloved, "She will make a home for you and give you a family. She can give you what we never could, Eomer. Let her make you happy, darling. That's all we ever wanted for you. She loves you even now. Don't push her away."

"Who—who is she?" he stammered, his mind and heart still wrapped in a stuporous fog.

One eyebrow slanted, giving Eomund a teasing, slightly ironical look. "Now if I told you that, it would take all the fun out of looking, wouldn't it?"

His father smiled crookedly in an expression Eomer found startling familiar, winked conspiratorially, and got kicked in the shin by his wife. Apparently both love and bad habits transcended space and time.

"Don't encourage him!" she scolded.

He smiled from his wife to his only son, but the sparkle had clearly left his eye. With the knowledge they must now part, Eomer saw the older man's arms tighten around his wife.

"You'd best be going now, son."

Eomer made no argument. Even as he stood there surrounded by his parent's love he could feel the tug of his heart, pulling him inescapably towards another. Never before had he felt so desolate yet so filled with hope. He looked upon his mother with deepest affection and nodded in salute to his father, who returned the gesture. No one offered words of love or longing. There was no need.

Then, in the stoically Rohirric way, he turned from the past, towards his future, and took another breath.

Eomer raised his head from his bent knees, ran both hands over his face, wiping the wetness off his cheeks and sniffed hard, exhaling a breath that was long and shaky.

There had been a point in his life when he had been angry with his mother for dying, leaving his sister in his care, leaving her children to be raised by another. They had never been unprotected, Uncle Theoden saw to that, but what kind of woman would leave her children motherless in a world of cruelty and uncertainty? And Eowyn…Hadn't she needed a mother to teach her about…things? Long ago, he had given up this anger, seeing it as fruitless and a besmirchment of her memory. After careful consideration, Eomer thought he understood better now why she had chosen to give herself up to the dark rather than live the rest of her life as only half a person. Neither of his parents had been whole without the other from the instant they met. They had been partners, help mates in every sense of the word and if his father could not come back to her, then she would find him.

It hadn't been a fever dream. Those where visions of swirling colors and bizarre scenarios, like swimming in a mug of beer before being gulped by a giant, bouncing and sliding down the spongy gullet, endued by high body temperature and fueled by opium. Although, there had been dreams after; of making love to a woman in the dark, the taste of her skin sweet on his tongue, of cupping her belly, round and swollen, heavy with his child, of being ridden down by young children at play, their carved horse's heads on sticks trampling him to death in the street.

But he hadn't been dead either… Just somewhere…indefinable. He hadn't told anyone, not even Eothain. Visions could hold great significance and the last thing he wanted was to be thought of as mentally unhinged.

He defiantly didn't want the girl to know. Gods, what would she do if she found out? She'd behaved like a chicken harboring her single egg, keeping one sharpened eye on him in case of predators, nudging him, rolling him over, sitting on him. It had been bloody unbearable. And nice, damn her eyes.

The sun was full up now and with it the heat of the day. Light filtered through the leaves of the willow, draping him in a coverlet of shadowed lace and a few fair weather clouds streaked the sky, mare's tales mostly, dyed the soft orange color of cantaloupe.

He should go back; Loti would be looking for him and there was work to do. Getting ponderously to his feet, his thigh still wasn't right and he walked with a bit of a limp, Eomer stretched, retrieved his mail shirt from where he'd tossed it and slid it over his head. The shirt, as well as the rest of his clothes, was getting tight.

He'd gained back all the weight he'd lost while sick and then some. Insisting that he needed his strength—and he had—Loti had brought him trays and plates and bowls full of food, packing him so full of olives, cheeses, bread, sausages, stews, eggs, bannocks, beans, strange fruits, and so much other exotic Haradrim fair that he was bulging at the seams like an overstuffed carpet bag. If she didn't stop soon, they'd have to roll him home, bouncing and jiggling. An undignified thought, that.

Again, he tugged at the shirt, settling it across his shoulders.

On his way back towards the main body of the encampment, Eomer passed the burying ground, pausing for a moment, as was the custom, out of respect for the dead. He'd collected three stones along the way and bent now, adding one to each of the three rock heaped cairns. It was what you did for the dead, each person who visited placing another stone, and the only thing he could do for men buried so far from home. It was a practical tradition and also one rooted in superstition. And Eomer wasn't one to throw aside either tradition or superstition; he did believe in ghosts.

He was feeling quite philosophical at the moment, hard not to given the place, and he decided to indulge that feeling, if only to ease his conscience a little.

Uncle Theoden had been a cautious but brave man, thoughtful, well educated, and was never one to squander men's lives. They were, after all, his people, and he could not rule without their consent. He was a great lover of philosophy, his uncle, especially of those unanswerable questions of morality that lay somewhere in the mirk between right and wrong. Often and often a young Eomer had stayed up late into in the night, quietly sitting around a table in the Hall, drinking warm milk and listening to the men discuss points of philosophical debate. What with everything, Eomer hadn't had the privilege of participating in those talks as an adult, that was, not until Theoden had been released from whatever spell had bound him to decrepitude and the King's nephew made heir to the Kingdom of Rohan.

In those days before Theoden's death, uncle and nephew had spend much time together; they'd both needed the support and trust of the other. His uncle had known him to be a reckless man, hot headed, driven at times by emotion rather than rational thought, and so their most heated discussions were always centered around the topic of mercy and the preservation of life.

Did he, as a man, as the King whose duty it was to uphold justice, not have the obligation to preserve life? Yes, he did believe the preservation of life could only be met through the exercise of mercy and understanding. But was it merciful to leave a wife and children without their protector, their means of support, because he, the King, had ordered their man into battle where he might die? How could one preserve life without war, which in itself meant the destruction of what he was supposed to save? War was cruel, true; it made victims out of everyone involved. But a cruel necessity, in turn; freedom to live as one chose could not be won without it. When evil threatened, be it focused on a man's life or his property, did said man not have the duty, the obligation, the right to make war and destroy life, to be unmerciful. For surely, some men needed killing. Were there not times when honorable men must do dishonorable things?

Eomer ran his hands through his hair and over his face, scratching under his chin. Sometimes sitting on the throne could be damned uncomfortable, like having a prick shoved straight up your asshole. He'd have to save these questions for another day. Right about now, he wasn't feeling like doing any work. He'd go watch Firefoot nose to tail it with his mare friend, or see if the stupid animal was rolling around in the dirt somewhere.

XXX

"Know what this is?" Eothain asked, rocking the chair he'd just settle into back on two legs, his feet resting comfortably on the corner of Eomer's desk.

Eomer lifted a pair of blue eyes from the illegible letter his was composing, frowning from the manure splotched boots on the polished wood of his desk to the scroll of paper his friend waggled in the air.

"A receipt for soap?" he replied very dryly and dipped the quill.

"Soap?" Confused, Eothain looked down at himself, then lifted one arm, sniffing suspiciously. "Uff!" he exclaimed, catching a whiff what Eomer had smelled, a highly noxious combination of horse shit and body odor. "Ah, well, hazard of the job, eh? I see you're staying pretty clean these days."

This glib little comment had absolutely nothing to do with anything. "What's that supposed to mean?" He was hot and irritable, the ink was uncooperative in the heat and he wasn't in the mood for cryptic wisecracks.

"Oh, well…I don't suppose your suffering from a severe case of pussy lust?"

Stopping mid scrawl, Eomer dropped the quill and ran both hands through his disheveled mane of blonde hair, ruffling it up in exasperation. "Pussy lust."

"Oh, to be sure. Every good man suffers a little bit of it in his life. Tell me who it is that you can't have?" Eothain leaned in confidentially, fishing for details, "Another man's wife? That black skinned girl with the big tits and the nice fat ass I always see you ogling? What's her name? Ah, well it doesn't matter, does it?. You can't take her back with you. Imagine what people," and by that Eothain meant Gondorians, "would say, you taking a dark skinned girl to bed and all. You'd scare the self righteous shit right out of them if you ever got a baby on her!"

Gales of laughter erupted from him as the idea of this formed in his perverted, pea sized brain.

Eomer groaned inwardly. "Eothain."

"Hmm?"

"Either tell me what that is," he pointed at the rolled up paper in the other man's hand, keeping together what little patience he had left, "or go fuck off. I've got work to do."

"Oh, this," said Eothain, like he'd forgotten all about it, tossing the scroll on the desk with a hollow plop. "It's an invitation."

"What kind of invitation?" One eye narrowed, Eomer bypassed the broken wax seal, shuffling it open The better question was who down here would be inviting him to anything?

"An important one. What other kind would I bring you?"

Eomer scanned the page, then turned it around, holding it out and tapped an indicating finger at the line of salutation. "This isn't my name," he pointed out.

Eothain shrugged indicating this was of little or no consequence.

The invitation was, in fact, for a party at the riverside home of Izz al Din a few weeks hence, to "be a lavish affair of good food, spirits, music and assorted company."

"I don't suppose by 'assorted company' he means an uncouth Rohirric farmer who masquerades as a king," Eomer joked, not without irony, "How'd you get this anyway?"

"Couple of my boys took it off a messenger day before yesterday."

"And you expect me to go to this party?" The paper had coiled back into itself on the desk and Eomer flicked a finger at it in distaste. "I'd never get past the front gate."

"Why not? You've seen his place on the river there. It's a compound. We're not getting anybody in there without getting caught and we sure can't just barge right in. If you want to find out anything about where that black powder's being made or who's making it, this party is our only excuse to get close enough to . Don't you worry about getting let in. Al Din's arrogant as sin. He'll let you in just to make you think he's got nothing to hide. He won't like it, but he's too full of himself to turn you away."

"You seem pretty sure of yourself." Nervously, Eomer tapped the paper in front of him with the tip of the quill making tiny blotches that became bigger blotches as the ink seeped into the rough fiber of the paper.

"Well…" Eothain drawled, trying to act humble and failing, "I know people. It's my job, eh? Know everything about everybody."

"Mmhmm. Let's say you do talk me into going to this get together—"

"Oh, no. You're going if I have to drag you there and toss you over the wall myself."

Irritated, Eomer blurted, "Why don't you go then, you know it all?"

He didn't think he was going to be able to talk himself out of going, but the last thing Eomer really wanted to do was spend an evening making small talk with the enemy, while constantly looking over his shoulder so he wasn't knifed in the back and searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

"Because I'm not the King of the Riddermark," Eothain explained, logically. "Me? They'll think I'm a spy sure thing and get shown the door. I'm nobody. You? Well, you're you!"

"Fine. Let's say I do go, just how am I supposed to know what to look for, or where it is for that matter?"

Just then there was a rustle at the tent flap catching the men's attention and Loti shuffled in sideways, eye deep in an arm full of clean laundry. She swiveled, searching for someplace to set her load, settled on the bed and dropped it with an audible "Oof!" Both Eomer and Eothain watched dispassionately, neither making any move whatsoever to help.

Glad to be relieved of her burden, Loti dusted her hands, brushed her hair out of her eyes and greeted Eothain, smiling. "Oh, Eothain, I didn't know you were coming. Can I get you something? Beer, maybe?"

"Oh, ah, no… Thank you, though."

Eomer regarded the mountain of laundry occupying his bed with skepticism. He owned exactly three shirts, three pairs of britches and an odd assortment of stockings. Loti had one undergown, one kirtle, one pair of britches and one shirt. Often, she washed their clothes together but the amount here didn't account for what little they owned in combination.

"Loti," he asked calmly, pointing, "What's all that?"

"Oh, just some laundry," she replied airily, wiping several more damp, straggly strands of hair from her eyes.

"I can see that. Whose?"

"Umm, well… I was doing the washing anyway…"

"What are you doing washing clothes for others? You're my assistant, not the camp laundress!"

Loti has swept past, ignoring him, knelt in front of the biggest travel chest, flipped open the lid and dove head first inside.

Feeling a twinge of annoyance, he demanded, "Now what are you doing?"

Her backside was the only thing visible as she rummaged and muttered. It was a firm, round backside, and he wasn't opposed to looking at it when the occasion presented itself… like it did now.

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!" sang Loti, extricating herself from the trunk.

A small wooden sewing kit brandished in her hand, she perched on the bed, removed a needle and thread from the box, bit off a length of thread, licked the end of it and stabbed it through the eye of the needle in one motion, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

Eomer refrained from saying anything inappropriate as she picked a sock from the pile. Supposedly patience was a virtue. Sometimes, he thought virtue was overrated.

"Loti." She made an interrogative hum, the sewing needle held delicately between pursed pink lips. "We're having a private conversation."

"Oh," was all she said, focused on the needle as it winked in and out of the knitted fabric.

"Loti."

Her hands fell exasperatedly into her lap. "What, E?"

"Leave. Now."

Scowling heavily, he wiped the end of the quill, dipped it and set to his scratching again, head bent over the page.

"Mmphf," she snorted and Eothain lifted his shoulders in an apologetic gesture.

Loti didn't immediately stomp out in a huff, but instead took a moment to collect the sewing kit, a few holey socks and a pen knife from her desk oblivious to the pair of eyes that followed her, covertly.

Her skin was damp with either perspiration or from the steam of the laundry kettle and some of her hair had come loose from the knot at the base of her neck, tendrils of it clinging to her face, her throat, her chest. The shirt was molded to the curves of her body, showing off the narrowness of her waist and the round perkiness of her breasts, the tips pressing hard against the fabric, begging to be nibbled. They jiggled slightly when she moved, with that firmness of young flesh that had the ability to drive a man mad.

He was fairly sure he wasn't the only man who'd stared at her today, covertly or otherwise. Well, he thought resignedly, if watching Loti slave over the laundry kettle was what kept morale up… She was certainly keeping _his_ morale up.

Inconveniently, his eyes met with Eothain's after her firm, little ass hastily wiggled out the door. Damn him and his infernal job, he saw everything!

"Mmm," said Eomer, indifferently, casually returning to his letter.

"Mmhmm," replied Eothain, doubting his friend's insincerity. "You weren't thinking I'd send you in there alone, were you? She's the spy. She's going with you."


	16. Chapter 16 Rub A Dub Dub

A/N: Hello again! Thanks for all the nice reviews I've gotten. You can't imagine how helpful they are! Thanks to everyone who's read this, also. I'd love to hear from those of you who have been reading but haven't yet reviewed.

There is a new LOTR fan fiction site! .

It's just getting started and has some very good authors on it right now. I suggest checking it out!

I've got a bad feeling the next chapter might be a monster, but I'll just have to wait and see how much trouble E and L decide to get into!

* * *

Loti was just putting the finishing touches on a leather folder thick with correspondence and other things bound for Minas Tirith when Eomer strolled through the doorway, ducking his head and wiping his hands with a grubby looking towel. He had been doing some kind of physical labor and was shirtless and sweating, hair clinging limply to his skin

Dribbling hot, green wax over the twine tying the folder she asked, "What have you been doing this morning?"

"Giving birth!" he answered, proudly.

"Oh," she said, glancing at his belly, "Umm, congratulations! I didn't even know that was possible! What are you going to call him? Or is it a her?" Her voice quivering with suppressed giggles, biting her lip hard enough to turn in white.

The towel in his hands went air born, whizzing past her head, hitting the canvas behind her with a splat.

"Not me! A mare." Then he launched into a brief, but all together stomach turning description of the foaling, as he went about the tent gathering things together in a bundle made out of an old towel. "Are you finished there?"

"Yes."

"Well, go get your things together, then," he suggested, the euphoria of the foal's birth still coursing through him.

"What things? Why?"

He gave her an assessing look, possibly suggesting she should already know, before glancing down at himself, scratching his belly.

"You're covered in ink and I'm covered in the gods know what else. Come on, get your things and we'll go wash up. We can't show up at a party looking like this. Well, maybe I could," he reconsidered, "They already think I'm an unwashed, uncouth savage, but you sure can't."

In the event, they didn't take the path that led straight to the river as she would have expected, instead he led her away from the main camp, the drying, late summer prairie grass rustling about her knees and crunching under foot.

"Where are we going?" she wondered as the tents faded into the distance.

"You'll see when we get there," was all he said.

Eomer was quiet on the way to wherever they were going, speaking only when spoken to, but not unfriendly, simply inwardly contemplative. Nothing unusual about that, really; he was quiet a lot lately.

Sometime later—it had been a long walk—he abruptly stopped and asked, "What do you think?"

"Oh! It's very nice, isn't it?" she smiled, entirely sincere. "Is this where you've been disappearing to lately? I can see why."

He shook his head, abashed. "No. That's nearby though. I found this place by accident wandering around one day. I thought maybe you'd like some privacy. If word got out you were bathing in the river there'd be five hundred men hiding in the cattails trying to catch a glimpse of you naked."

"Yes, it is nice here. And instead of five hundred men trying to see me naked, it'll be just one, hmm?" She made a funny face, batting her lashes idiotically.

"You've got nothing I haven't seen before."

And then, without any consideration or scruples about modesty, he dropped his britches like a twelve year old boy instead of a twenty something year old man and jumped in the water with a loud ker-plunk, droplets of water spraying everywhere.

Loti was grateful, not only for Eomer's thoughtfulness, but for the ability to wash her whole body at once, instead of in bits and pieces. Normally, she bathed from a bucket in her tent, or walked to the river to wash her hair. The other option, if she wanted a hot bath, was to lug water from the river, heat it over a fire, and stand knee deep in an old whiskey barrel that had been cut in half rooted out from a previous life as who knew what; not worth the effort.

It was a sort of backwater eddy pool he'd brought her to, not stagnantly foul smelling as backwater tends to be, but burbling and murmuring, shaded under a canopy of tall, broad leafed trees, their roots knotted and roped, heaving out of the spongy black banks. The water was dark, but not filthy looking, and underwater plants were trapped in its currents, rippling in the vortices like strands of a mermaid's hair.

Such a peaceful place, Loti thought, inhaling the scents of decaying, wet wood and mud so rich with iron that the smell left a metallic tang in the back of her throat; peaceful, except for the large man splashing and flailing in the water.

"Are you coming in?" he asked, half floating on his back.

She swirled her finger in an easily understood gesture. "Turn around."

"Don't want me to see your tits?" he joked, certain parts of Eomer's anatomy clearly visible under the water, but, obligingly, he put down his feet, stood, and turned away.

Quickly disrobing and leaving her clothes in a pile in the grass, Loti slipped from the pool's edge into the water. It wasn't cold like spring water, but hadn't yet been warmed by the sun. Cool for the most part, there were odd pockets of trapped warm water and moving between the two, cool to warm or warm to cool, gave her the goose bumps; the tips of her breasts contracting into points as hard as pebbles.

The water only came up as high as her waist leaving the rest of her exposed to some of Eomer's best open mouthed, eye popping stares.

"Can I turn around now?" he asked and without waiting for an answer started doing just that.

Instantly panicked, Loti sunk down neck deep in to the water, long strands of chestnut brown hair floating around her like the river weeds near the embankment.

Eomer grinned lewdly, water lapping at a level a little higher than his hips. "If you came closer and got a little bit lower, I think you'd be at just about the right spot."

With a huge splash that made him flinch involuntarily, Loti cut her hand over the surface of the pool, dousing him in a wave of water.

"I deserved that," he admitted, one eye half open and water dripping from his beard, "didn't I?"

"Yes. You did."

Still grinning like a patient in the final stages of tetanus, he finished wiping water from his other eye. "You're really not going to let me see them, are you? Too bad. Here-"

He took a step forward, reaching out, then hesitated, frowning in indecision.

"You should just—" Another step, and he gathered two handfuls of her floating hair. "Now, stand up."

Warily she did so, slowly rising, keeping an eye on him in case he decided to do anything untoward. He didn't though and with the utmost care for her modesty and dignity tidily covered her chest with the veil of her hair.

Respectfully, he smiled again, his gaze staying fixed on Loti, only one corner of his mouth lifting. "There. That'll have to do until we can find you a pair of seashells." His fingers adjusted a few matted strands of wet hair, allowing himself the pleasure of surveying his handiwork. "Reach over and grab me the soap, will you?"

Numbly and very, very confused, she floated over to the water's edge, the whirls of the current playing like a lover's fingers on the bare skin between her legs.

"You should be proud. You've got a quality pair of tits there," he commented, sounding casual.

"Oh, how nice. Thank you," she returned, dry as a piece of unbuttered toast and stretched her arm into the grass, half climbing out of the water, feeling for the cake of soap.

"I wasn't really paying close enough attention the first time I got a hand on them, but the second time—"

Loti whirled around, flushed as red as a beet, mouth gaping open in soundless offense. "The second time?"

"When you were drunk."

"When I was—" she gasped, pressing her hands protectively over her bare breasts, "Uh! You—you took advantage of me when I was drunk?"

She was outraged and horrified that Eomer would do such a thing and he was damned lucky there were no weapons to hand, or he might've gone back to camp missing some of his most important body parts.

Shaking his head, he looked all together too smug. "No. You put my hand down your shirt."

"I did no such thing!"

"You did too," he answered, "But to be fair I didn't stop you. You kissed me too, with your tongue, and you asked me to fuck you. And I think you tried to put your hands down my breechs at some point."

"You!" Having gotten a hold of the soap, she threw this at him as hard as she could. It bounced off his shoulder and he caught it on the rebound. "You didn't!"

"No, I didn't. You were drunk. It was the liquor talking. Some women get taken that way when they're drunk, but it wouldn't have been right." Now it was his turn to be shocked. "You don't think I actually would've done that, do you?"

"It's not stopped you before! I've seen it!" Loti taunted, hotly.

Eomer lifted his shoulders in a shrug, unapologetic. "That's true enough and I'll probably do it again. But most of the time those girls are whores, you know that. They want to fuck me because of who I am or what I might give them. Splitting the quim of a girl who's drunk is too easy. I wouldn't do it to somebody I respect."

"Mmphf," Loti snorted, feeling relieved—a little—but still unconvinced. Stubbornly, she folded her arms and turned away. "Was that last part supposed to be a compliment?"

He took several steps forward, close enough to loom over her and prod her with a finger in the shoulder. "Come on. I was only joking. I didn't mean to start a fight. Here," he held out the hand holding the soap, smiling in that way that got him whatever he wanted, "Wash my back for me."

Noticing he didn't say 'please', Loti took the soap from his hand anyway. "Oh, alright," she said grudgingly, "Turn around."

Very solid was Eomer, deceptively so. Slender and sinewy he might be, but underneath, down the long, deep column of his backbone, around the arch of his ribs, the wide breadth of his shoulders, he was ridged and grooved and dimpled, all smooth muscle. Wielding a sword or a spear or even a bow would require a very strong back.

So would being King…

"Let me do you now," he offered when she was done.

His hands worked ecstasy on her back; the tough fingers and rough palms rubbing and kneading, massaging and circling, his thumbs driving out the tension of the moments before. She even sighed once or twice, bobbing limply with the movement of his hands, the lilac scented soap carrying her away from a world of unknowns like a butterfly on a breeze.

Eomer appeared to like this noise.

"Is that the sound you make in bed just before you're about to—"

He stopped speaking mid sentence. His hand, which were sluicing her back with water stopped also.

"Before I'm about to…what?" She was sure it was inappropriate, whatever it was.

Behind her, he was tense; she didn't need to see him to sense it.

"E, is something wrong?"

"Ah…" His voice was unusually tight and unsure.

Like all people who spend a lot of time together, Loti had become acutely aware of subtle changes in Eomer, whether it be tone of voice or body language.

"Eomer—"

One of his big hands settled on her shoulder, lightly, but the fingers dug in hard.

"Don't. Move," he ordered, low voiced.

She turned her head over the opposite shoulder, looking to see if she could possibly discern what the trouble was, and knowing immediately something was terribly wrong. Eomer looked as if he were about to be sick. His skin had lost all its color leaving him pale as fresh fallen snow, blue eyes wide with alarm, his breathing, shallow and fast.

"Eomer! Eomer what is it?" She whipped her head back and forth, scanning the shoreline, straining her ears to pick up any unnatural sounds. "Is it…Is it men? Haradrim?" she asked in a hoarse whisper, beginning to feel her own stomach turn inside out at the thought of being attacked, alone and unarmed, so far from help. Eomer was a big man, an easy target for any archer to take down. She, of all people would know that! They had no protection and no cover, either, standing here in the middle of the pool. If they were over run, the only way to save Eomer would be to throw herself against him, using her body as a shield. She would die of course, but…

Loti swallowed, the taste in her mouth acidic and dry with fear. One strategically placed arrow in the wide plane of his back and Eomer would die, drown in his own blood.

He swallowed too, she heard it. "No…" he said, "It's a… It's a snake. I think…I think it's a venomous one! A water moccasin. I must've stirred it up splashing around."

Relief they weren't about to die a violent death, naked and pierced with a thousand arrows quickly disappeared when she realized they could very easily die a much more ignominious and agonizing death via snake bite.

Collectedly, Loti asked, "Is it still there?" One of them needed to remain calm and cool headed, and it certainly wasn't going to be Eomer!

Her answer was an undulating wiggle, a disturbance of the water past her very naked and exposed backside.

_Bitten in the ass_, she thought. What a horrible way to go.

That thought was supplanted by an even more horrible thought, if that was even possible at this point! If she was bitten, Eomer could easily carry her back to the camp to be treated. But if _he_ should be bitten, there would be very little she could do and he would most likely be dead in her arms somewhere between here and there.

"Alright," trying to make herself seem like she knew what she was doing. She didn't, but Eomer really didn't need to know that right now. "Alright. They're attracted to warm bodies, that's all. You're not going to pass out are you?"

"No…" He didn't sound all that confident.

"Well, for Valar's sake, Eomer, don't pass out! You'll drown otherwise. Where is he now?"

Completely without humor he said, "Wrapped around my left nut sack, I think."

"Eomer, listen to me. I'm going to figure something out. Stand perfectly still and keep breathing. Everything will be alright." This was said as much for her own confidence as for his.

Slowly, very easily as to not disturb the water, she swam toward the reedy, muddy, tall grass at the water's edge searching for what, she didn't yet know. An idea? Any idea? It was at times like this when she wished she was full blooded elf—even though she took leave to doubt she was even part elf; some mark on her face didn't mean anything. If she was an elf, she could exercise her magical powers with animals and ask the snake if he would please run along and find some other nice man to torment.

But that, quite obviously, was not going to solve the immediate problem of Eomer and his testicle loving friend.

What she did come up with, instead, was a very long, gnarled old tree limb.

"What do you think you're going to do with that?" he asked in a tone about three octaves higher than his normal speaking voice as she bobbed towards him in the water, the branch held out like a lance.

"I'm going to bash you in the head with it if you start to panic," replied Loti, testily, "Where is he now?"

"Slithering between the cheeks of my ass, I think."

"Oh, no, I see him!"

Gently, very calmly, and cooing endearments to the thing, Loti managed to coax the snake onto the branch, its long wiry body neatly coiled around the end. It was some sort of water moccasin, glassy, beaded eyes protruding wetly from its lacquered, black scaled head. A long forked tongue wiggled out of its smiling mouth, interested, disliked whatever it tasted, and retracted, slurping.

Once again, Loti cautiously made her way to the embankment, keeping her own beady eye on the snake. Reaching the pool's edge, she wrenched the stick back over her head and heaved the stick with all her might, launching the snake into the air. The snake uncoiled off the end of the branch, an outstretched black line sailing gracefully through the sky. Then it made a shape like a lightning bolt in mid air and landed with a rustle of grass somewhere in the distance.

Pleased with herself, she spun around and smiled at Eomer, who swayed heavily, glazed eyes rolling back into his head.

"Eomer!"

Loti lunged forward, catching him around the arms before he toppled backwards. Under her hands, he felt clammy and limp limbed, but, she suspected, otherwise alright. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, only stood there swaying dazedly and blinking, but eventually managed, "I'll just go throw up in the bushes over there."

Repeating, "It's alright," over and over, she stood close, smiling up at him, chaffing his arms with her hands. He was still markedly discombobulated, and more than slightly embarrassed; his skin splotched with red instead of darkening to its normal golden dark tan.

The day was hot, it was always hot here, and so thick with humidity it was hard to breathe; like having a ten pound rock pressing on one's chest all day. Overhead, the sky was hazy and almost white, as though a thin layer of muslin had been pulled over it, filtering both sunlight and the sky's natural bright blue color. There were clouds hiding behind that veil of muslin, big clouds, barely just smudges in the far off distance, but still, they were there, lowering ominous as the night.

Sweat was beading on Eomer's skin, in the hair of his chest. She could feel the radiant heat of his body despite the heat of the day, he stood so near, and the smell of him was harsh, soap and sun, musk and something else, rank—goat, perhaps, the smells of birthing? Her eyes focused on his chest, slowly dropping, following the trail of sandy blonde hair splitting his belly and disappearing to spring up again as a thick dark patch below the water line.

All in all, wet and dripping, smelly and sweaty, it lent him a rather mythical appearance, like the god of the sea she'd read about in some ridiculous book describing a world in some sort of alternative universe. Mentally, she rolled her eyes. Fantastical romances were always populated with these sorts of god-like men, handsome and taciturn and stubborn. All Eomer needed now was the pitchfork!

Shaking himself like a horse shaking off flies, he found more words. "Thank you," he said, lifting his hands out of the water and resting them, cupped, on the rounds of her slender shoulders.

"What would you have done if I wasn't here?" she wondered in a teasing way.

"Died, most likely. You know it's possible to die from fright."

It was meant as a joke, but neither one of them laughed.

"What happened to make you so afraid? Find a snake curled up with you in your bed roll? Or find one in your boot?"

"No, but you get them in your boots or your bed roll often enough. When I was, oh, nine or ten, I convinced the Master of Horse to let me ride one of the stallions my father kept. I was always a lot bigger than the other boys and he considered me a good enough rider. At the time I didn't realize how skitterish stallions could be. I was doing just fine for a while, but then that old bugger of a horse must've seen the snake because he reared up and I fell off the back and the damn thing took off like a shot towards home. I don't remember exactly what happened then but it was a rattlesnake. I remember the sound the tail made. And I remember the snake's eyes just before it bit me in the boot, like it was looking back at me, straight into my eyes."

This was good; he was beginning to talk, letting himself be distracted.

"It had the decency to look you in the eye, at least, before it tried to kill you." Loti continued stroking his arms sympathetically, the bulging muscle beneath gradually slackening. "I bet you were scared, though! What did your father say?"

"I ran home crying and told him what happened. Then I think he went outside and castrated the bastard."

"Who? The Master of Horse or the stallion?"

Her joking elicited a smile and a chuckle from the big Horse Lord.

"The horse, but I don't think the Master got off too easy, either. Da was mad as a pissed off hornet. Has anyone ever told you about what happened to me after my cousin died?"

The usual sharp pang stabbed her heart at the mention of his cousin, Theodred, but pushed these feelings aside, concentrating for the moment only on Eomer.

"No. Tell me about it."

He made an awkward motion, as though he wore an ill fitting piece of armor that was too restrictive for movement, and took a deep breath through his nose.

"Uncle had this…advisor, a slimy, underhanded son of a bitch." The word 'advisor' was used mockingly and said with contempt. "He had me taken to the place we keep prisoners in Edoras saying I disobeyed my uncle's orders."

"You? Disobey orders?" Loti heckled, sarcastically, "Never!"

Eomer's good humor disappeared temporarily. "That worm tongued little shit was giving the orders. My uncle couldn't even feed himself let alone give orders! My duty was to the Rohirrim, it always has been, and they needed a leader. I had to do what was best to protect my people."

"I know! You always do. Get back to the story! You were rotting away in some dungeon."

"Mmhmm." He shot her a mildly dirty look. "We call it the snake pit because it's cool and dark and the snakes den up in there. I don't know how long I was in there…Two, three days, maybe. Ghaw, it's something I don't like to think about, you know. I don't remember sleeping much, either. I thought I was going to lose my mind and that might've been the reason I got put there. The worm's hands would've been clean if I'd have killed myself out of the fear. I was too much of a threat, see," he added as an explanation, his thumbs idly stroking the sunken hollows of her collarbones. "Eowyn came and brought me some blankets and food and made sure the torches were kept burning so I wouldn't be left in the dark. My skin felt like they were crawling on me. I still have nightmares about it. In the middle of the night I wake up thinking I'm there again."

A shudder ran through his body, the tips of Loti's fingers sensing vibrations of fear and revulsion like the faint tremors of an earthquake. She was still standing close, rubbing the long, strong length of his upper arms, a swordsman's arms, long boned and hard.

He wasn't all bravado and swagger. There was some vulnerability, some weakness in Eomer, making him simultaneously more complicated and yet, strangely, less complicated. She found this part of him very attractive, this part that made him human.

"Is there anything else you're afraid of that I should know about? Just in case?"

Eomer smiled that crooked half smile, his gaze soft and bright, lively, in a way she hadn't seen in weeks. "Only what everyman's afraid of. Not being able to make his cock stand up or being an utter failure in bed."

"Isn't that what your wooden idol is for? Are you telling me it doesn't work like it's supposed to?"

His fingers hadn't stopped making circles but, instead of tracing the delicate wing of her collarbone, grazed lightly down the slender column of her neck, idle, without thought. If he kept it up, she'd start purring and rubbing up against him like an affectionate cat!

"Well, no, it does work, but once it's been rubbed, then there's the problem of where I'm going to stick it," he explained.

The smile had grown, sparking the blue of his eyes now, and he held her gaze, unspeaking, for just a moment too long because an all together different kind of snake brushed against Loti, light and quick, definitely firm and indisputably animal in nature.

Eomer had noticed it, too, and, hands on her shoulders, pushed her gently away.

"Maybe you shouldn't stand so close," he suggested, one cool blue eye flashing in a wink, "Go get the soap for me, huh?"

She did, coming back with both cakes of soap and a ratty old square of linen to use as a wash cloth. He took the soap from her in one hand, the other groping, hidden under the water.

Toweling in hand, Loti lathered the soap with intense concentration.

He said, "You look like you want to ask me something."

She raised her head, bewildered. "How do you know that?"

"We've been together day and night for months now, I can tell. Ask."

"What—" Her lips compressed, feeling foolish for asking. "What is it about danger that makes you, ah…"

He watched as she darted a quick glance at his hips, giving her back an equally quick lift of the shoulders.

"I don't know. It feels…good."

Seeing this answer wasn't satisfactory, he elaborated. "Mmm, well, it's not so much danger as it is," Eomer let out a sound like a sigh, wanting to find the right words, "imminent death. It's a lot like the bloodlust. Have you ever…" Surreptitiously, he glanced in her direction. "Have you ever been with a man right after he's done battle?"

Loti shook her head, interested, and somehow fascinated, by what Eomer was doing. Beneath the water his hand moved, the muscles of his forearm flexing and relaxing, a slow but steady rhythm, once, twice, three times, and again, his thumb caressing the head of his erection. There was nothing lascivious about the act—his pupils weren't dilated, his skin wasn't flushed beyond normal and it wasn't the fast, hard jerking of a man in the grip of sexual excitement nor was he staring at her with that dark look that meant he'd like to throw her over his shoulder and commit ravishment right here. She thought it was simply the unconscious motion of a man needing to rub away the ache of frustration or the desire to find some pleasure in the moment.

Either Eomer had massive stores of sexual confidence, or he was becoming far too comfortable around her. Both, probably…

Distracted Loti might be, but Eomer wasn't.

"Your cock gets stiff in battle when the lust is on you, just like you do when you lust for a woman. After the fighting's done, though, your cock doesn't want to go back down. You're still hot with the lust. Excited. Your heart's pounding and you're not thinking straight and you can't feel any pain. Ever wonder why after battles so often men rape the enemy's women? There's hundreds or thousands of men all running around with cockstands, plundering and looting and still raging with the lust of the battle. The rape, part of it is to humiliate the opponent and the other part is to crush them. It's not right, but it is what happens. I made a promise a long time ago to never let that happen to the women under my protection," he ended.

"Have you ever?" she asked, curious, soaping herself from the bottom up.

"Ever what? Raped a woman? You know perfectly well I have not!" he exclaimed, offended. Eomer had removed the hand from his penis and was now soaping himself, top down, tiny bubbles of lilac and oatmeal scented soap mingling and eddying in the currents of the pool.

"No! I know you'd never do that. I mean, have you ever been with a woman right after a fight?"

"I have. Many times."

"And…" she persisted, "What's it like?"

Scrubbing with no great effort, his expression was absorbed, his words chosen with much more care. "It's not like anything. It's just…fucking. I didn't care who she was or what she looked like as long as she was willing. You know that old saying, 'To the victor go the spoils'? Well believe me, there's plenty of women who are more than willing to fall into bed with you when they see you as a hero."

He took a breath, opening his mouth to say more, then shut it with a click of teeth, giving her his back.

Loti couldn't let this opportunity pass by. Since Eomer was in a good mood and felt like talking, she felt like prying. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but she was certainly no pussy. "What? What is it? What did you do? Something embarrassing?"

His head ticked back and forth, darkened, wet strings of blonde hair swinging. "You'll think I'm an animal."

"Too late for that. I already do!"

Sour, he flung another dirty look over his shoulder but once more turned away so she couldn't see his face as he spoke. "Remember what I said about mob mentality? Men do things in a mob they wouldn't do otherwise. You get so hard it hurts and all you can think about is being inside her. You need to have her there and then, in privacy if you want, right there in the street if she lets you. For you, it's quick and impersonal, for her…" He shrugged again, a jerky uncomfortable motion, like a puppet cut from its strings, "you don't really care."

"Did you ever feel bad about it?" she asked as he lathered the soap in his hands before setting it down on a nearby rock.

Eomer had to think about that one and there was a pause in the conversation as he rubbed soap over his shoulders and arms, the babbling of the water and a few noisy birds in the droopy trees expressing their opinions on his behavior.

"No," he admitted, honestly, coming around to look her dead in the eye, "Never."

"The spoils of war, hmm?"

"I risked my life to save them; that was my reward. It would have been rude to refuse."

Her eyes squinched shut as he reached out a finger and dabbed the end of her nose with a foamy tuft of soap. Loti stared at it, cross eyed, then at Eomer, who found it amusing, and she brushed it away with a forearm, annoyed.

"Don't you ever get sick of," she searched for a better word even though it was a little too late for tact, but had a go in any case, wiggling her eyes, "…you know?"

The corners of Eomer's mouth tucked back and his brow wrinkled with incredulity. Obviously, this was an outlandish notion.

"What I mean is," Loti restated, negotiating the turn of her waist with the washcloth and raising an arm in the air, "is there never any affection, or is all just straightforward with you."

He rinsed himself with handfuls of water, replying dryly, "If you're asking if I ever get tired of sleeping with women, then, no. If you're asking if I've ever made love…" And again, he gave her another one of those non committal shrugs, vague as ever, face wrinkling in a dismissive 'I don't really know' expression.

A giggle of intrigued delight rose up in Loti like the bubbles in a barrel of shaken beer. "Oh-ho-ho! Who was she?"

"She was just a girl from Minas Tirith I—Gods and geldings, woman!" Breaking off suddenly, he grabbed hold of her wrist, the same one she was washing, wrenched it up as high in the air as it would go, practically tearing it out of its sockets and leaned forward, investigating like an inquisitive dog. "What happened to your armpit?"

"What?" she asked, blinking, having no idea what he was talking about. "My—Oh! That…"

"Yes that! All the hair's gone, woman!"

"Yes. I know. I did that."

"You did? Why in Bema's name would you do that?"

"Because it's more attractive!" she protested. "And it smells less."

His eyebrows were touching his hairline, astonished. "How?"

"How? Oh, with hot wax."

"Hot wax? Candle wax?"

"Stop repeating everything I say, you sound like an idiot. And no, beeswax." Loti could see his mouth working to ask the inevitable next question. "Yes, it does hurt. Surely you've seen whores with the hair taken off their bodies."

"Off their bodies!"

"You're doing it again." She tried repossessing her arm, but it didn't work. "Let go!"

"You mean to tell me you can—you do—take the hair off other places of your body?" Now he was starting to sound interested.

The idea that Eomer, a man of infinite sexual experiences, not to mention partners, had never seen a woman sans body hair lifted the corner of her mouth and made her eyes narrow into dark blue half moons. Loti looked him up and down, askance, evaluating his sincerity—he was completely sincere as he appeared genuinely scandalized—while feeling mildly wanton. And enjoying it!

"Yes…" she said in her most alluring voice, "I did my legs, too, from foot to hip," and gestured in a seductive slide of the hand.

Barely breathing with anticipation, Eomer peered at her with widening eyes. Now to truly shock him!

"And…other places…" Her eyes cut to the water line, suggestively, and back up to meet his, an eyebrow lifted high, assessing his level of understanding.

Having listened with rapt attention, Eomer's faculties for understanding weren't completely impaired. Lowering her arm a fraction, he straightened his backbone in disbelief. "You took all the hair off your cunny?" This came out in a rush of slurred Rohirric syllables and in a voice as high pitched as prepubescent choir boy. "You're as bald as an old man's head down there? Why on Middle earth would you want to do that?"

"Not the most flattering description I've ever heard," answered Loti, tartly, "but yes, I am. You can't go around bristling like an untrimmed holly bush all the time!"

"Well, I do!" Eomer retorted, defensive.

"Yes, well, you're a man. Men are supposed to be hairy. Women are supposed to be soft and smooth."

He made a gruff noise in the back of his throat like 'Mmhmm.' "And men like it better that way. Without all the hair?"

"Well, I haven't had any complaints, so they must, mustn't they?" she said, savoring every moment of Eomer's shock.

For several seconds it looked like he wanted to ask something and finally, he worked up the courage to do so. "Can I—" he paused, swallowed and started again. "Can I touch it?"

"No, you can't touch it!" cried Loti, "Let go! Thank you."

But Eomer didn't go away, instead loomed over her, smiling stupidly. She never should have told him. The gears turning the wheels in his mind were grinding just imagining it; she could hear them creaking, rusty iron on rusty iron.

"Ugh! Go away. You're like a perverted old man!" she chided, making shooing motions with her hands.

Slinking down into the water and floating off, Eomer agreed. "A man and perverted, definitely. The two kind of go together, don't it? Now, old…we can argue about that. I'd like to think I've got a few good years left before I'm put out to pasture."

"Just a few, huh?" she pouted. "Oh, too bad." It was hard to be annoyed with him on these rare occasions when he was feeling so voluble.

The next little while was spent washing her hair and ignoring Eomer, who, although persisting in remaining no more than an arm's length away at all times, was gentlemanly enough to keep his back turned.

Eomer had been, for the last few minutes, much more interested in blundering around in the water and poking a bullfrog in the belly with a stick, causing it to emit a meaty sounding "Quarp"—apparently grown men in charge of armies and countries were still capable of behaving like boys now and again—and was only now washing his hair, scrubbing behind his ears like a dog scratching at fleas. Loti, not finding a three pound frog of any interest, subsided into a pocket of warm water, waiting for Himself to finish his ablutions.

This was a relaxing place, she decided, dreamily. Water babbled in harmonious gurgles all around, hiccupping with the occasional bits of leaves or flower petals flung off some unsuspecting tree or plant by the rising wind. There was a sort of dull, murmurous rush in the near distance that must have been the river, contrasting starkly with the noisiness of the eddy pool. Odd, how something as big and powerful as a river could be so quiet. The willow trees' branches feathered and sighed in the breeze, stretching their wilted fingers, a silvery green tangle against the blue-white muslin sky. Undoubtedly, though, the best thing about being here was the unobstructed view of the naked man in front of her, his tall, suntanned form emerging with seal like grace from the depths, sweeping huge hands through the dripping mane of his golden hair. The sun chose this particular moment to pop out from behind a cloud, its rays coruscating like polished steel off the pool's many ripples and roils and sparking the droplets his eyebrows, lashes and thick beard so they shimmered, glinting like tiny beads of liquid crystal.

"Have you ever heard the one that goes 'Rub a dub dub, three maids in a tub?'"

"Of course. My mother used to tell us that one, except it went 'Rub a dub dub, three _men_ in a tub.' I always wondered how three men fit in a tub together," she confided.

"Sounds like the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker had a few secrets. I wonder if the rest of the village knew?"

"And you didn't wonder what three maids were doing in a tub together?"

"The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker weren't the only ones trying to see what was going on in that tub, Hen," he said in even tones, "Every boy over the age of ten tries to imagine that!"

Confounded, but unwilling to let on to this fact, she gave him an evasive, "Oh."

Distracted, she worried how he would fair that night at the party. Eomer wasn't exactly what she would call subtle. Or inconspicuous for all that! A man less like a spy she'd never known. Spies, at least male spies, needed to be forgettable, plain, unmemorable, a face unrecognizable moments after it had been seen and Eomer was too tall, too blonde and too much like a bull in a china shop for any disguise.

Besides guts, brains and creativity, there were at least two other requirements for successful spies: the ability to look someone in the eye and lie convincingly, and the wherewithal to make the intended target trust you. Although Eomer possessed these characteristics in abundance, he lacked the refined, more indefinable qualities possessed by the most well trained spooks.

Eothain, though, did have those qualities.

The Rohirrim, being an informal, quasi military culture, had no High Council, and so no Master of Whisperers. And they had no need for them as, unlike the more sophisticated Gondorian government, they regarded spying as not honorable. When a man had a problem, especially if that problem was with another man, he confronted the problem face to face, man to man. There was no backdoor, underhanded slinking about, no digging up of dirt or uncovering ancient laundry in order to destroy another.

But Eomer wasn't stupid. He'd realized years before what men who craved power were capable of, and, that if he were to protect his people and his position, he must put aside those qualms and learn to play the spy game, or risk losing what was now his by right of his birth; the throne of Rohan. Spying had become an ugly necessity of the times and one for which Eomer was well aware he was not equipped for. So being a man who had been a commander and leader from an early age, and therefore used to delegating responsibility, had turned to the one man whom he could trust above all others.

Observant and garrulous, Eothain had been, for years, using his natural talents to play the spider, pumping unsuspecting marks for information.

This was, Loti realized in retrospect, miffed, probably why Eothain had gone out of his way to make friends with her when she was their captive!

Loti knew, also, that, if asked, Eothain would have gone in Eomer's place, perhaps even passing himself off as the King of Rohan. But much to his credit, Eomer wouldn't let another do his dirty work. There had been no doubt that Eomer would insist on appearing as himself in the rare instance he was recognized by one of the partygoers. But she… She would be as she'd always been. No one would think twice about a beautiful woman on the arm of a king.

Half turning to her as these thoughts took root, he asked, "What?"

"Huh?" she blinked in confusion, black lashes flashing "What what?"

He was grinning, wearing a smile of male satisfaction. "Oh nothing. I just happened to notice you were staring at my ass, that's all."

Her mouth dropped open a little. She had been staring at his ass? Preposterous! "I was not looking at your ass!"

"You were too. You had that far off look in your eye like you liked what you were seeing."

Actually, it was quite possible she'd been staring at his backside by simple inadvertence. She hadn't really been paying attention to what her eyes were doing.

"Well? So! What if I was?" she blundered, her color high.

"But if you were…?" His eyebrow rose, speculating and enjoying her discomfort along with their banter.

"Oh, well…if I was looking, and I wasn't," Loti began, flicking her eyes to his backside, hidden beneath the water, then rising slowly to his face, appraising him in the same way she might a stallion on the auction block, "I'd say it was a very nice ass. You are what they call, hmm, oh, what's the word… A stud. Good blood stock, perfect for breeding."

"I'm glad you think I'm good for something," he teased.

One of his fingers came up, trying to poke her in the little brown spot near her lip.

"Don't! Stop it!" she squeaked, smacking his hand.

"Aw, come here, woman" he said, half heartedly grabbing for her flailing arms, "and I'll show you how good my bloodlines really are!"

Loti was practically bursting with giggles as they struggled. "Oh, no, you won't!"

Moved by an impulse she would later regret, she snapped the ratty linen washcloth at him. It cracked in the air, biting into Eomer's belly, just above the hip bone, with a loud, stinging _thwap_.

"Ye-ow!" Stunned, he rubbed briefly at the spot to soothe the pain, removing his hand to find a small red welt. "Oh, woman," he warned, trying to screw his face into something serious, but his lips kept twitching and his eyes kept shining, "What have you done? Lain wicked hands on the king? Set out to attack him when he was most vulnerable. You'll pay for your treachery, believe me."

Loti stepped back, snorting like a tickled pig as Eomer advanced on her, water sloshing about the level of his furry belly button.

"Oh, my lord, have pity upon me," she choked in a patently false voice, barely able to contain herself, "I am your servant. Show me how merciful you are!"

He cocked an eyebrow, inquiringly and grinned broadly, enjoying their play. "Why should I, woman? What could you offer me that I don't already have?"

"Jewels?" she suggested.

He shook his head, dismissively. "I have no need of them."

"Gold?"

"No. I have enough gold. I don't need more."

"Power?"

Loti made a sharp turn in the water still towing Eomer in her wake. He was stalking her like a mouse, a cat toying with its intended victim just before the kill.

"I'm a king. I have all the power I want."

"Women?" Loti proposed, sounding hopeful.

"Ah, women! They lie upon my bed and open themselves to me like flowers in the morning, eager for me, their sun, to bring them life, dewy wet with moisture, ready to be plucked. Her petals are pink and smelling of desire, slippery as silk under my fingers, her nectar sweet as honey on my tongue," he remarked. "I don't desire more women."

"Very erotic, but, my lord, I have nothing else to offer! What more could you possible want?"

His eyes narrowed in a way that would make a woman who didn't know him worry. "This!" he shouted and threw himself at Loti in a spray of water and outstretched arms.

She let out a high pitched shriek and whirled, desperate as a rabbit chased by a hungry fox, floundering and splashing in an attempt to get away. Eomer, long legged, was not nearly so hampered by the weight of the water and caught up to her in two strides, seizing her around the waist and holding her to him, back to belly. Squirming like a worm on a stuck on a hook, and just as slippery as one, Loti giggled and screamed, unable to speak in any coherent fashion until she was abruptly heaved off her feet, arms and legs pin wheeling freely in the air.

"E! N-!" was all she got out before Eomer listed sideways like a sinking ship, hitting the water with a smack and dragging both of them under.

Blubbering and spluttering, Loti broke through leaped to the surface like a gopher out of a hole, open mouthed and drippy eyed. Panting and wheezing came from a few feet away; Eomer, bent double, hands on his knees, convulsing with laughter, his handsome face pinched in a rictus of mirth.

"Oh, shit!" he cursed, straightening up and curling an arm around what must have been an aching stitch in his side, sighing. "Ahh-ha! H'm…If I don't get out now, I just might drown."

She watched as he made his unsteady way to the water's edge, hoiking himself out of the pool and on to the grass, water sheeting off his naked body. Back to her, he bent to retrieve his towel from the ground, giving Loti the opportunity to tilt her head appraisingly, appreciating his buttocks, round, tightly muscled and concave on both sides and his darkly fuzzed balls, large and heavy, bulging between his legs. From the hips up, he was deeply tanned, richly seasoned to that color somewhere between bronze and toffee brown that blondes tend become when well tempered by the sun. Beneath that line, his rear and legs were unexpectedly pale, every single one of his sandy blonde hairs wiry and dark against white skin.

"How is it," Loti asked, covering her breasts with her hands, "that with all the riding you do, your ass isn't as hard as boot leather?"

He turned, looking down at her in the pool, one hand clutching the linen towel, the other cupping himself.

"Got to keep it well oiled, like a saddle, or else it would get that tough," he said.

Nodding at the hand concealing his privates she couldn't resist asking, "What are you trying to hide there? Suddenly struck with feelings of modesty and propriety?"

Eomer jiggled the hand, then let go, leaving his bits and pieces to air dry. "Ah, well, when the water's cold it shrinks my giblets. See something you like there, then?"

"I, ahm," Loti stammered, gaze still interestedly fixed on man parts, "I see that your, ah," she made an unsure, kind of pointing hand gesture, "I mean, that you're…you know."

"Snipped? Defrocked? Skinned? Unwrapped? Why? Haven't you ever seen one before?"

"Ah, no. I mean, yes! Is it that common, though?" she asked, tentatively, feeling mildly depraved for wanting to know.

Looking down at himself, Eomer hunched one brawny shoulder. "No, but my cousin was. Both my uncle and my mother were half Gondorian and they have different notions. My Da said it was inhumane and forbade my Ma to do it. He said if a man was supposed to be born without it, he would be. I guess if he thought it was gone, I wouldn't be able to, ah…mmhmm…My Ma was contrary, though, and had it done anyway." Unselfconsciously, he cupped his limp member, large and supple in his big hand, mindlessly stroking the end of his cock with his thumb, as though feeling for that part of him long missing. "I took a lot of grief about it when I was younger. But the ladies seem to like it. Less messy, eh? Are you coming out of there or are you planning on going disguised as a raisin tonight?"

Watching Eomer closely, Loti edged forward, ordering him not to look.

"I'm not going to look," he assured as though he wouldn't countenance such an idea and, holding the towel out with both hands, averted his head, squinching his eyes shut.

With some splashing and mumbling, Loti finally extricated herself, not without some difficulty—Eomer, to his credit, did offer to help—from the pool, and, blind and fumbling, he wrapped her in the damp towel.

"Watch your hands!" she barked as he inadvertently touched one of her more private spots.

Eyes still squeezed shut, his wide mouth split in a grin. "It was an accident, but you said I couldn't look, not that I couldn't touch."

XXX

Over her shoulder, Loti called out, "You can look now," as she hurried into the trees, disappearing, clothes in one hand, washing kit in the other, the wet towel clinging to her hips, showing him the split between those two plump halves of her ass.

Even though she'd put on weight since taking her in, the girl was still too thin. The flat, diamond shapes of her shoulder blades were visible, poking out under the skin like lost bird wings. What had Elfhelm called her? A sparrow? Well, she was all that; small, brown, light, quick, a delicate yet tenacious little thing, cupped in the hollow of his hand. A creature he could easily scare away with sudden movements and his brusque nature. Annoying too sometimes, swooping down and pecking him in the head, stealing bits of his hair to take back to her nest. Maybe barn swallow was a more appropriate description…

Well… here he was again, naked and alone with a half standing cock. By the gods, he was a horny son of a bitch.

"Are you coming?" Her voice came through the trees, harrying him into action.

"Ah, yah."

He bent, pulling on wool britches over wet legs, and cramming his now fully aroused penis behind the laces while concentrating fiercely on mucking out stables, castrating pigs, playing cards, getting kneed in the stones among other erection killing thoughts. Sighing deeply, he hitched up his balls and followed her through the trees.

Coming out the other side, he found grass flickering to and fro in the wind, but no sign of the girl.

_Where…_ he took a quick look all around, _where the devil did she go?_

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and he swiped it away with the palm of his hand. It was like the weight of the sky pressed down on him from all sides or like living inside a wet blanket. He'd be glad to get out of this gods forsaken hell hole of a place, if only for a little while. No more biting flies, no more grit in his food, no more long, scorching days or short hot nights, no waking in those hot nights soaked with sweat. He'd never thought of Minas Tirith as a place he'd visit if given the option, but right now it seemed like heaven; a bright white, rocky oasis in the desert that what would be his immediate future.

Minas Tirith… Where he would find good tea, good food, family and friends, hot baths, good beer and a soft bed, warmed with the heat of a promiscuous woman!

Thoughts of women brought him back to what he was supposed to be doing, looking for Loti.

He'd strolled aimlessly into the prairie grass with no particular purpose and now thought to shout, "Girl! Girl, where are you?"

"I'm down her—Eeeeyowaaah!"

Eomer flew forward, tripping over something large and solid lying hidden in the grass, flinging his arms out to keep himself from sprawling ignominiously to the ground, staggering and wildly off kilter.

"Damn it all, girl! What are you doing down there?" he demanded, standing over her after he'd righted himself and marched back. His heart was pounding, he was red faced and sweating freely. So much for the bath.

She was curled up on her side in the grass, wrapped only in the linen towel, looking like some sort of puff pastry appetizer lying on a bed of salad greens. The linen wrapped tidbit moved, unfurling as a butterfly does when emerging from its cocoon, hesitant at first, then launching upward, wings outstretched.

"You could've squashed me!" she cried.

"I didn't even know you were there. Here," he extended a hand, "Get up and we'll go."

"Maybe I don't want to go!"

"Well, I'm not going to leave you out here by yourself!"

"It's only mid morning," she protested, "There's no hurry to get back is there?"

He cast a glance back towards the invisible camp. Certainly, there were things to do, tasks to be accomplished, projects start and to finish…

"Hmm…?" she coaxed, interrupting his meditations.

Here was the rub. Either he could spend the next couple of hours shoeing Firefoot and staring directly at a horse's ass or—his gaze flittered down to Loti who patted a trampled patch of grass next to her—spend the next little while laying in the grass, invited by a beautiful woman attired in nothing but an old threadbare towel who clearly wanted his company.

No real decision, was there!

"Mmmhmm." This noise was a grudging sound, but made purely so she knew this was his idea, not hers.

He took one long step over top of her, sat down hard, flopped onto his back and let out a sound like a dying cow, stretching. Loti also lay on her back, hands over her bosom and clutching the edge of the towel, no more than an arm's length away.

"It's going to rain soon," Loti observed, making conversation. One dainty finger pointed towards the sky. "I think that cloud looks like a toadstool."

Eomer angled his head, studying the cloud in question, suspended in the sky. The cloud grew as it passed overhead, expanding and distorting. "I think it looks like a prick."

"Of course you would!" she grinned, head lolling in his direction. "Ever wish yours was that big?" Her eyes darted upwards.

"Gods no!" Eomer exclaimed. "No woman would have me. There's something to be said for small blessings."

She plucked a long stem of grass, light green in color and springy with whitish seed tops, and offered it to him. He put the end in his mouth. It tasted woody and bitter.

"What was that bit about women and petals?"

The dangly ends of the grass quivered as he nibbled, saying, "Oh, it's part of an erotic love poem. I don't really remember the rest, but I always liked that part. Still got that book. Somewhere... Eowyn probably stole it. Mud is cleaner than that girl's mind."

Loti hummed, seemingly tantalized. "I'd like to read that sometime."

Eomer cracked a lid, smiling at her and she smiled back, amused. Threading his fingers together, he rested his hands over his stomach, their exuberant talk dwindling. Sunlight was seeping around the edges of a renegade puff ball of a cloud so he closed his eyes, red and black patterns dancing on the inside of the lids.

"I meant to ask you something," he began carefully after a moment's lull; the brief pause filled with grass chiming in the breeze and the chirping and yipping of nesting swallowtails dive bombing a hawk circling in the sky.

"Oh, yes?" The tone of her voice changed to excitement and interest. He opened his eyes sensing the movement of her body as she rolled over in a rustle of grass, finding her poised like a lady panther sunning herself on a rock, head propped in the palm of one hand, one slender leg crossed over the other, scandalously bared to mid thigh. Small, but perky, her breasts swelled against the towel, the nipples two shadowy points beneath the thin fabric.

Eomer rolled over, too, onto his stomach. Lying on a hard cock was painful, but much less embarrassing than having it pop into view out of the waistband of his pants. Although, given her current state of insouciance, she'd probably enjoy his embarrassment.

"If you're going to ask if you can sleep with me the answer is still no," she finished.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a 'hmfph'-ing noise that conveyed he was entertained by the notion.

"No. I wouldn't waste my time. I already know what the answer would be," he said, the touch of a smile on his lips as he twiddled the stem between calloused fingers. "I wanted to know what you thought of someone—Theofrid."

"Theofrid? Oh, well, ah…he's…very tall."

"I can see that! I wanted to know what you thought of him as a person."

Her two lovely dark eyebrows swooped together in a frown. "Why are you asking me? Surely you know Theofrid better than I do."

"You know men," he said in a non committal way that she somehow found offensive.

Sarcastically, she answered, "So glad to be of service, my lord," and made to roll away.

Reversing tactics—he was speaking to a woman after all and not a soldier, he really needed to remember that—Eomer decided on flattery, grabbing Loti by the hip to stay her. "What I mean is you're a good judge of character. You see things differently than I do. Women, I mean."

The lines of her body eased, the angular stiffness of pique relaxing once more into soft curves, the gradual slope of hip, the round of shoulder, and, in between, the deep valley of her waist.

"Are you telling me you value my opinion?" she inveigled.

"Of course I do! A man's secretary is his most trusted servant."

She appeared to like this, picking up on the use of the androgynous noun 'servant', and uttered a placated, "Mmmhmm," before he returned to the crux of the matter.

"I was thinking," Eomer began.

"Well, there's a first time for everything isn't there!" interrupted Loti, not trying to suppress either a grin or a giggle.

He gave her a squiggle-eyed glare. "Shut up. I was thinking," he began again, "about promoting him."

Her eyebrows crinkled. "Theofrid? To what? Head ditch digger? Nightsoil watch?"

"No. To the King's Guard."

The King's Household Guard, part of Rohan's complicated and convoluted military structure that one day, Bema be willing, Eomer would simplify, was considered the most elite force in the Rohirrim, and comprised of the King's highest ranking and most trusted officers. Not only did they act as the King's bodyguards and military escorts, but some, including Eothain, Wolf, and Eoin, were delegated specific duties by the King, and each man in turn given his own men to command. Theofrid would not be one of these men, but it would sure be nice to have the giant hanging around. Because sometimes size really did matter.

"Theo? An officer?"

It was a dubious sounding question. Apparently, Loti didn't share his confidence in Theofrid's abilities.

"You don't think a man who has the guts to punch me in the mouth and grab me by the stones deserves to be rewarded?"

A gust of warm wind stirred her drying hair, lifting several recalcitrant brown strands and tangling them in her eyelashes.

The scent of her was borne on the breeze, also, light and feminine, like the girl herself.

Covertly, Eomer scanned the provocative way in which her body was positioned; hand elegantly resting on the lean swell of her hip, elbow tucked into the dip of her waist. It was clear even to the most casual observer that she trusted him; the initial fear that he would rape and kill her at last, Bema be thanked, finally dispelled. No woman would lay like that so near a man she distrusted, all but naked and expect not to be savaged.

Was that, perhaps, what she wanted from him, why she had asked him to stay? He felt suddenly very dizzy, light headed at that thought, the burden of his desire an aching, heavy weight between his legs.

No, he decided finally, rational thought struggling with and eventually overpowering male instinct. No, those specific kinds of sexual signals weren't there, no matter how badly he wanted to imagine otherwise. And in any case, he had long ago made up his mind; if she wanted him in her bed, she would have to invite him to it.

"Mmm… I suppose so. But, isn't he… sort of young?" she wondered, voicing what seemed to be her primary concern whilst fingering the out of control hairs from her lashes. "It's just everyone else is so much…older. Do you think the others will respect him?"

"He's older than I was," Eomer observed. Although this was true, Theofrid was six years younger than Eothain, the youngest of his officers, he was still older than Eomer had been at the time of his assent in the Household Guard. He had become a commander at the ripe old age of eighteen. "They'll respect him, alright. Everybody's already heard about what he did to me. Look," he took a breath, opening his mouth to say more, but shut it again, pausing briefly to marshal his thoughts. Still holding on to the piece of grass, he rolled it between thumb and forefinger distractedly, dainty seed ends flying.

Letting the breath out through his nose, Eomer sighed silently. How to explain five hundred years of Rohirric history plus several thousand years of cultural evolution to a girl who knew no more about his land than he did about hers.

"You know how we don't put much stock in titles. That's because we believe a man's actions determine his greatness. I've seen a ten year old boy defending his family with nothing but his dead father's broken sword and I've also seen so called 'men of honor' turn tail and run at the first whiff of battle. We don't have the same structure of nobility that they do in Gondor. There, a peasant born a peasant will always remain a peasant. But in the Mark, even a bastard born to a whore can become a great leader through his actions." By the confused look on her face he could tell he was doing a poor job of explaining.

Shouldering his responsibilities, Eomer spent several minutes explaining the role of the individual within the quasi military superstructure of Rohirric society.

The Kingdom of Rohan, as it was known, had been founded, quite unintentionally, smack in the geo-political center of Middle earth and occupied some very strategic ground between the bordering Rivers Anduin and Isen and divided practically in half by the trading route of the Great West Road.

"We've probably seen more war and battles and strife than any other people. Fighting, war, death…it's all some of us have ever known."

It was, therefore, no surprise that modern Rohirric society, with a lack of oppressive aristocracy, had been patterned after their military hierarchy; the higher one's military status, the higher his social status. The higher a man's social status the more influence he had on society. Neat, simple, straightforward, uncomplicated. Just like the people.

"So you're saying someone can improve their lot not because of who they are, or what they were born to, but because they distinguished themselves in battle or were brave or something?" Loti asked, taking an interest.

He nodded, knowing she would understand, but rather glad he had explained it so well. "All men can achieve greatness so long as they're willing to do what it takes to get there. Do you see, that's just one of the reasons the Rohirrim is so strong, what makes our enemies fear us. Each man makes his own destiny. He earns his own recognition. The whole really is greater because of the individuals."

"And here I thought it was because of the screaming giant barbarians on horseback," she joked, then became serious again, "But what does any of this have to do with Theofrid?"

Just as she said it, though, it dawned on her and Loti's mouth swung ajar in a silent 'o' shape. "It's a great honor, isn't it, to promote him. His social status will be improved. Do you think it will help him in the trouble with his girl? Get in her father's good graces, I mean?"

A slight movement of the shoulders intimated his uncertainty. "I can't say, but I doubt it. Even back home, a father doesn't exactly want his daughter to be rolling in the hay with someone he doesn't approve of. And I don't think a Gondorian nobleman will ever see a Rohirric peasant as anything but a peasant, even if he was found out to be my long lost brother. Theo should have known better!" he said critically to the grass.

"But, Eomer, I still don't understand what any of this has to do with Theo becoming one of the Household Guard."

"Mmm…Mmmhmm. The Guard, to be in it, the only requirement is that a man have a family. A man with no stake in the future has nothing to fight for, nothing to die for, no loyalty to anyone but himself…" He turned to look at her, tight jawed, and looked away, avoiding the dark blue puzzled eyes. "He's a good man, a good soldier. Generous. Kind. Brave. I've seen him fight."

She seemed to sense he had trouble explaining—he was, damn it, and all curled up inside with an emotion he couldn't find words to express, compressed like a weight on a spring. Her hand flipped up in impatience. "So what are you asking me for? Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself."

Then she snorted. A long hog-like sound, followed by a pressurized giggling, "Oh," and followed again by a more sympathizing, "Oh, E…"

Loti laid a hand on his shoulder, the slender fingers light as the bones of a bird. "I never thought I'd see the day when you were less than confident about anything!"

Eomer lifted his face to the sky to avoid her gaze, closing on eye and squinting against the suns obscured, hazy rays. "It's a dangerous life and he's never met his son. And the boy…" he told her, in something very close to a whisper, "he shouldn't live without his father, eh?" His eyes dropped to hers then and held them for the briefest of seconds, assessing. Yes, she understood, too.

"Oh, E, you have the head of a pig!" she scolded in a playfully severe voice, shaking his shoulder. "You think he doesn't know that already? You think Eothain and Wolf and Eoin and the others don't know that? Or," she stopped seeing the earnest look on his face, "is it something else?"

"Well, I could say I was worried you'd seduce him. He'd poke your eye out," he chuckled.

Getting a good rise out of the girl was too easy and sometimes too difficult to resist. He liked the way her eyes burned when she was in a good rage, as if they were two tiny blue flames flickering behind her long dark lashes, and how her skin flushed a pinkish red from breasts to hairline. Having expected this, she disappointed him.

Slitting one eye into a think crack of blue, Loti replied tartly, "Stop trying to wheedle me. I know what you think you're doing and it's not going to work. I'm in too much of a good mood. E, you know these men love you. They would die for you because they believe in you, because, they know you would do the same for them."

She had lifted a half dry clump of wavy hair from his neck and queued the rest of his hair in a thick tail at the base of his neck with her free hand. It was meant as a casually, a gesture of kindness—he was hot and sweating, could feel it beading and streaking on his skin, cool in the wind—but it gave him a sudden thrill of intimacy. He could see the lines and shapes of her hidden under the thin towel, the triangular juncture where her thighs met, sleek and smooth as the skin of her belly without its patch of dark hair.

Easing on to his side to face Loti, her hand fell away, coming to rest, instead, on the meaty bump of his shoulder. Eomer didn't want to ravish her, or he did want to, just not right then. The tingling in his balls was replaced with a softness around his heart like that of a goose down pillow and as warm as the day.

What he wanted was to touch her, to feel the rising swell of thigh and hip, rest his hand propietorially in the curve of her waist, as though she were his and his alone. Could he not just hold a woman? Fit her ass back against his hips and mold himself around her body without the expectation or more.

"E," she said, calm and reassurance, confidence and tranquility in her sweet, soft voice, "You'll do the right thing. I know you will, you always do. We trust you, even when you don't trust yourself."

_We._ That was what bothered him, wasn't it. Thousands of lives entrusted to one man. Himself.

The moment was interrupted by the faint gurgle of her stomach, the same soft growling a hibernating bear makes.

"Ugh! I'm starving!" she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. "Let's find something to eat."

Her eyes were bright and clear and for an instant before she'd risen, he'd seen his reflection in those round glossy depths, an image of the man she thought him to be. The image of the man he wanted to be.

XXX

Much later that same day, just before dusk, Loti was pinning up the last lock of hair when the tent flaps were rudely flung aside, admitting Eomer, unannounced and stern faced.

She'd whirled on her stool at the sound, looking glass clutched protectively in her hand, but, seeing it was only Eomer, relaxed, her heart rate returning to a normal rhythm.

"You scared me," she said breathlessly, holding the mirror to her bosom.

He grunted in greeting and acknowledgement, a laconic sounding, "Mmm."

Then, she actually saw him. "Oh! You look very dashing, don't you!"

A Rohirric man in full regalia, sweat stained, grimy, unwashed and bad smelling was an impressive sight. A Rohirric man washed, brushed, polished and dressed in his finest was as close to perfection as could be imagined.

He was dressed almost entirely in black; expertly woven black britches made of the finest wool tucked into knee high black boots polished to a respectable shine. His undertunic was made linen, dyed a dark charcoal color, the long cuffs elegantly trimmed in jacquard ribbon of greens, golds, reds and blacks. Over top of the linen, he wore a sleeveless five button, black leather tunic that fell to his knees with a high collar that stopped just under his jaw.

Thrust through the sword belt was his ceremonial dirk, a gaudy gold and enameled piece of male jewelry, made even gaudier by the enormous green gemstone capping the hilt. Known also as a ballock dagger because of its foot long, pointed, phallus shaped blade and rounded testicle inspired lobes at the guard—what else would a Rohirric man carry!—it was a brutal stabbing weapon designed to pierce armor. The gemstone hilt cap was a new addition to the weapon, though, and easily over one hundred carats in size!

For the first time, Loti began to wonder how wealthy Eomer actually was.

Eomer stood like a soldier at ease, slightly off kilter, hand resting nonchalantly on the pommel of his sword, deceptively relaxed. He nodded, tight lipped, indicating he'd heard the compliment, but offering none of his own.

Smoothing the dusty lilac satin over her thighs, she prompted him with, "Well, how do I look?" fishing for flattery.

Giving her the quick once over, he bobbed his head up and down. "You look…" his lips moved in and out, eventually, deciding on the very ambiguous, "fine."

Loti was hoping for something more descriptive, but from the white knuckled way Eomer gripped the sword's pommel, she could tell he was nervous.

"I'm almost ready," she assured him, whirling around on the stool, picking up a thin stick of kohl from the small table that served as her vanity, gazing into the hand mirror and commencing the task of lining and smudging her eyes.

Eomer made a noise like a stepped on goose.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, mid smudge.

"Is something wrong?" he growled in shock, "Your dress, that's what's wrong!"

Turning to face him, she argued in a high offended voice, "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"What's wrong with it? I can see your whole entire back nearly down to the crack of your ass, _that's_ what's wrong with it! Take it off!" He sounded truly scandalized.

While she had tried to discuss what she should wear to the al Din affair, Eomer had either been too distracted or too disinterested to care, and, in the end, had handed her a purse of coins, telling her with a flip of his hand to buy whatever she wanted. If he was unhappy with her choice in gown, that was his fault.

And it was a lovely gown, in spite of its simplicity, flowing like liquid silk over the taper of her waist, flare of hips, the upturned perkiness of her breasts. The dress was sleeveless to show off the delicate musculature of her arms, with a high, very modest neckline, and a flowing gored skirt. Unembellished in any way, Elvebrilith, the barbarian loving, Elven dressmaker couldn't resist showing off what he believed to be a woman's finest attribute with a draping cascade of satin fabric exposing her very fine, very slim back.

"Honey," Elvebrilith had said in his distinctively high whine, "if your man doesn't notice you in this, then his tastes are more unnatural than mine."

Well, Eomer was certainly noticing, although whether his reaction was out of jealousy or fury, she wasn't sure.

Defiant, she cried, "I will not!" and swiveled, presenting Eomer with what he saw as her shamefully bare back.

"You will! Are you wearing anything under that? You won't even be able to carry a knife!"

Be it throwing dagger, hunting knife or dirk, Eomer always seemed to be bristling with some sort of sharp implement, believing the knife to be the deadliest and easiest weapon to conceal. At the moment, he was hiding at least two other knives besides his ballock dagger; a stocking knife in his boot top and another inside the leather tunic. What exactly did he think was going to happen tonight?

"You know I'm not!"

The satin fabric of the gown was too flimsy for even gartered stockings. To Eomer's mind, she may as well be going naked.

"You can't go out in public without your head covered, but you can wear that?"

"I can wear anything I like in a private home," she replied haughtily, "It's only in public that there are rules about dress."

Under his breath he muttered, "I'll never understand this rotten place," and took a step forward, hovering over her shoulder and glaring at her reflection in the looking glass with the look of a man who'd eaten a sour apple. "What it that?"

She had moved on from accentuating her eyes with the stick of kohl and was now dabbing a finger in a small pot of pale pink lip paint.

"Does it matter? You won't like it anyway!" she snapped, smeared the paint across her lips and, watching him watch her, laid the hand mirror down with a bang on the small table.

"You're right. I don't. You look like a whore."

That was a mistake. And he knew it. Her spine stiffened almost automatically with indignation. Very slowly, she spun on the stool, fixing him with her hottest, most penetrating blue eye.

Whore. It was the one slur she hated above all others, primarily because she knew it to be true. She had been a whore; used at the pleasure of Umbari nobility and Fat Fingers her pimp. Used, abused, thrown away, forgotten. Just like her mother.

He retreated a step, tactfully looking abashed, his typically confrontational gaze darting and returning.

"You don't need it," he murmured softly, in that rough northern voice like gravel. "You're…more beautiful without it." And he nodded once more, an offer of his remorse, the words so hard for him to say. If Loti wanted an apology, she wouldn't get more than that.

"Oh…well," she suspired, quiescently, "I suppose I'm a little nervous, too. I haven't been to a party in…goodness," she smiled, rolling her eyes in thought, "years, probably."

Clumsily, their dialogue lapsed, leaving them to an interminable few seconds' interminable silence during which they avoided meeting the other's eyes.

Then, as though reminded of something, Eomer's hand ducked inside his tunic, emerging with a small drawstring bag. He fiddled with it, turning it over uncertainly before thrusting it at Loti, arm outstretched.

"Mmm," he said in a hummed version of "Here".

"What—" she started to say, perplexed.

Ordering her to, "Just take it," he waggled the little velvet bag insistently.

"What's this?" Loti pondered aloud, inserting a finger into the puckered mouth of the pouch.

Upon inspection, _this,_ turned out to be a pair of teardrop earrings and artfully designed leaf shaped hair pins, studded with dozens of the same green gemstones as the jewel capping his dirk. In her hand, they flashed in the muted evening light of the tent; tilted one way clear and brilliant, as rich a green as the meadows of his homeland in spring, turned the other, the stones appeared nearly black.

"Eomer! How wonderful!"

She had taken great care in the styling of her hair, even weaving in the purple ribbon Eomer had so thoughtfully purchased, but these were quite literally the crowning jewels. Whenever he presented her with a gift, no matter how extravagant or inconsequential, she always felt a strange pull in her chest as though he were trying to pry the bars off her securely locked heart. Block headed jackass he was at times, Eomer had, once again, unwittingly, managed to wrench away one of those impeding bars, bringing her that much closer to freedom, all the while, selfless, asking nothing for himself. He had asked for nothing, save her loyalty, and that she had given him as freely as she'd given anything. Trust was a thing hard won and even harder to keep, but there was that between them, at least.

Alacritously, Loti tilted her head, sliding the ear bobs through pin prick holes in her lobes.

"They're yours—to keep. Do whatever you want with them."

"They're beautiful, but—why leaves?" she asked, tediously clipping the bejeweled pins into her up swept chestnut tresses.

"Like the day I first saw you. Hidden in the trees." The memory of that day flickered in his eyes. And in hers. A day that had forever altered and entwined both their lives. "I thought it was appropriate for a spy."

Rising, she crossed to Eomer, beckoning him down to her level with a crooked finger.

He had shaved. Well, no, that wasn't accurate; he'd trimmed the several weeks' thick growth of beard. Under her palm, the close clipped stubble rasped with a soft bristliness as she reached up to cup his face, the wavy, unbound blonde mane of his hair tickling the back of her hand. So close, his scent was powerfully male; spice and musk and earth all together.

She stood on tip toe and pressed her lips to his cheek.

His already warm skin became hot, dark red blood creeping up his throat and cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispered, gazing into those clear blue eyes that could reveal nothing or everything about him, "I'll treasure them, always."

The most indescribable expression flitted across the darkly tanned, chiseled features; regret, fear, tenderness, hope. Desire. Longing.

Just as quickly, it disappeared. He cleared his throat in a nervous fashion, attempting to reasserting control of the situation while shooting her one of his best prudish looks.

"You're a walking inducement to ravishment, woman," he grumbled.

Her lips tilted upward, pleased. "Well, it's a good thing you'll be there to protect me, isn't it."

"Mmmhmm." Uncharacteristically gallant, Eomer, hand over his heart, stooped, offering her his best courtly bow. "Your servant. Madam."


	17. Chapter 17 Into the Lion's Den

A/N: Hello everybody! Sorry this took so long to post! This is a linchpin chapter and probably the hardest and most important chapter I've written yet. I wasn't actually going to post this until the rest of it was written, but it got to be so long and I just got out of the hospital and I'm not feeling so hot right now, I just decided I'd better post it. There's a lot of words here, I'm certain there are errors! Hopefully, it won't take so long to write the next little bits! I hope you will be entertained! Please feel free to leave a review at the bottom. They are always appreciated.

And People! When you see my free writing at the end of something LET ME KNOW! This is like the third time I've accidentally posted it. Sometimes I have as many as five word docs I word from, cutting and pasting, so things occasionally get a little crazy!

* * *

The statue was set into a recess of the wall.

The statue was also small, bronze, male and adorned in nothing but sword and shield, muscles taut and bulging under a skin of burnished orange, its arms and legs tensed, weapon brandished, ready for battle. Both of its weapons in fact...

Loti was just extending an experimental finger towards a certain weapon—only out of scientific curiosity, she told herself, to see how lifelike it really was—and envisioning a bronzed nude Eomer adopting the same aggressive stance, when a deep male voice tickled her ear.

"Mine's bigger."

"Hmm? Oh, well, yes. I should hope so," she replied mildly, taking a glass from him and sniffing at its dark red contents. "But size doesn't always matter, does it? What are we talking about?"

The corner of his mouth twitched, wanting to become that troublemakers half smile, but he suppressed the urge, too uptight to let himself enjoy the moment. "His sword, what else?"

"Ah, what else," she said dryly, "What's this?" Cautiously, she pressed the rim of the glass under her nose, sniffing delicately at the fruity, slightly acidic smelling red liquid.

"Just wine." He passed his own cut crystal glass under his nose, dark amber contents sloshing and sipped appreciably, then made that face men make when insisting they enjoy drinking something that tastes like turpentine. "Mine's brandy. I thought you'd do better with the wine, though. Remember what happened the last time you had brandy?"

She ignored this question entirely. "Where did you get that from?"

"What? This?" In the same hand as the brandy, looped under his forefinger was a big, black cigar. He disengaged it and sniffed critically at the shaft. A few flakes of ash dislodged, falling to the expensive hand knotted rug below.

"I didn't know you were a man with vices, other than whiskey or women."

Shrugging noncommittally, he said, "I don't normally, but with a good brandy or a glass of twenty year old whiskey, there's nothing better. Anyway, it's more of a social thing, something men do when they get together. I picked it up from Faramir. Cigars seemed better than that awful pipeweed Aragorn smokes. That stuff'll burn the hairs out of your nose." He put the moistened tip back in his mouth, puffed once and withdrew. "Our host over there gave this to me."

With a lift of his chin, he indicated the clan chieftain, Izz al Din, standing companionably in a knot of other men, smoking and talking.

"Think he's over the shock of seeing us?" wondered Loti.

Eomer spoke, the tip of the cigar poised just before his mouth. "No. He still thinks I'm an ignorant savage. He's not afraid of me as a man, necessarily, but he is afraid of what I can do to him."

XXX

Standing outside the grand entrance of his palatial riverside home, Izz al Din looked like a man who'd simultaneously bitten into a bad lemon and swallowed a rat. As they ascended the elegant white marble steps, his eyes sprang open, wide with alarm and something else…something Loti couldn't precisely identify. Fear or worry, perhaps. His throat bobbed convulsively, trying to dislodge whatever was stuck there and he stood stiff as a rod, confounded, while all the blood drained out of his head. Eomer had greeted the chieftain with customary Rohirric politeness, and, although still markedly astonished at their arrival—he went through the motions of introductions like he'd been caught in a dream—al Din managed to regain most of his self possession, nervously smoothing his brocaded red silk tunic, the muscles of his jaw bunching as he gnashed his teeth together. Very bad for one's dentition…

A dozen well armed clansmen lined the steps, narrow-eyed and fierce in their unflattering tight burgundy coats and baggy low crotched pantaloons, but al Din waved them off, making no move to have the barbarian and his lady escorted from the premises.

"I'm sorry, my lord," he drawled, in what Loti was surprised to hear as well educated and cultured Westron, the words 'my lord' having just that bit of smugness to it. He lifted his hands, stepping forward into the firelight and blocking their path, palms out in apology. "The affair tonight is invitation only. Perhaps you'd care to make an appointment to meet with me some other time." This was said as a statement, not a question, as he had no intention whatsoever to meet with Eomer now or ever.

The two men stared, each eyeing the other with mingled hostility and wariness like two male wolves over a deer carcass. For the moment, thank goodness, they were refraining from going at it in the street, rolling together in a ball of blonde hair and expensive clothes, claws bared in a fight over territory and pack dominance. Even so, there was still a lot of polite lip curling.

Al Din made no pretense of not recognizing Eomer, Loti saw. And why bother? Who other than a six foot six inch, reckless, blonde, quasi barbaric Horse Lord would have the stones to approach an enemy's private sanctum unaccompanied? She also hadn't failed to note his use of the informal title,' my lord', instead of addressing Eomer with the more appropriate, 'Your Majesty'; a blatant denigration and not so subtle insult that had not gone unnoticed, least of all by Eomer, whose mouth pursed imperceptibly. He didn't like his titles, any of them, but knew their implied power over an enemy in any case.

The chieftain of the clan known as The People Who Sail on the Winds of Sand and Sea—this was a loose translation into Rohirric for Eomer's benefit—looked much like any other Southern man, clean shaven, olive skinned and sporting a close cropped head of dark hair with a pronounced receding hair line which revealed his age: late forties or so.

He looked outwardly healthy and capable, well fed but not fat, with the clan badge of his position—two crossed scimitars overlaid with a three masted galleon—pinned to his brocaded silk chest. But then again he should, she thought with a mental snort. He had been a merchant and a trader before usurping the clan chieftainship. Hard, tireless days spent laboring in the blazing southern sun aged most Haradrim men, weathering them to a patina somewhere between oiled leather and well dried rose wood far sooner than it should.

If he didn't have the face of crumpled piece of paper, neither did he have the hands of a warrior.

Later, sipping drinks by the hearth Eomer would observe, snarling, "Did you see his hands? He's never held a sword in his life, except for ceremony, let alone been in any kind of real battle."

True. One could tell a lot about a man from his hands. Compared to Eomer's grizzled, ham sized fists, evidence of a life time's hard labor, the warlord's were soft and well manicured, more likely to wield a quill than a sword or a scythe. He chose to give orders by paper and messenger, rather than leading by example in the field. And Eomer, the first born son of one of Rohan's finest warriors, a man who'd always known his fate lay in war and leadership, had in that moment seen al Din for what he truly was; a coward. A man who was no man. An autocrat who led through fear and threats and tyranny, who had no regard for the lives of men or their families he claimed as kin. A usurper who made promises to better the lives of his people, but was only interested in the betterment of his own.

Two huge hands, their fingers long and a little bit crooked, patted his chest searchingly. "Invitation…" Eomer mumbled, "Hmm…" One hand finally slid inside his tunic and Izz al Din's smug cat in the cream look disappeared. Producing a once fine piece of heavy parchment, now slightly damp with sweat from being worn so close to his body and limp as a dishcloth, Eomer flopped it over in a brief inspection and then held it out to al Din, who, with some reservation, accepted it, pinching the paper with two fingers like he'd just been handed a dirty stocking and wasn't sure what to do with it.

Scrabbling in the inside breast pocket of his jacket for a pair of gold rimmed spectacles, he examined the invite carefully.

"I have others," Eomer said, cocking one dirty blonde brow, "if that isn't good enough. Did you want to see them?"

Normally a swarthy man to begin with, al Din nearly turned black as a tide of blood rose in his face. He jerked the spectacles from his nose, jamming them back into the pocket, chewing the insides of his cheeks.

Now realizing his messenger had been intercepted and his correspondence tampered with, al Din was stuck somewhere between the rock and the hard place. If he intended to maintain his guise as innocent and ignorant of the accusations Gondor and its northern allies had laid against him—the manufacture and transportation of arms across international borders and the forcible abduction of women and children for sale as slaves—he had only one option. Admit the Rohirric king into his home as a gesture of good will.

Or… he could turn the commander of an occupying army away, making him look suspiciously guilty and increasing scrutiny on some of his more dubious business practices. The last thing Izz al Din wanted was to have Prince Imrahil and the Gondorian navy boarding his ships and seizing his cargo in the name of King Elessar. Very bad for the pocketbook, that.

Looking decidedly agitated, thoroughly angry and on the verge of losing his well cultured composure, he crumpled the paper into a tight, damp little ball, torchlight from either side of the double doors playing over him in ragged orange and gold flickers, shadows filling the hollows of cheekbones and eyes as he mulled over the rapidly dwindling options.

Loti stole a sideways glimpse of Eomer, who, although standing one step below Izz al Din, positively towered over the other man. Men from Harad did tend to be short and slim, in stark contrast to the thick set, long boned men of the north, none of who seemed to be under six feet tall. Possible Dwarvian Complex? Loti wondered; that specific type of inferiority complex that affects men who are short in stature, thereby causing them to behave like complete assholes? Well…he wouldn't feel any less inferior with Eomer looming overhead.

As quickly as Eomer had deduced the man's character, al Din had assessed his own precarious situation. He was an arrogant man, but not a stupid one.

Smiling a smile as fake as his cordiality, al Din made a graceful sweeping motion towards the entrance. "Ah. Of course. Please, enter and welcome," he said in a voice that was calm, resigned, and strangely unperturbed, "The hospitality of my home is yours to enjoy."

Suddenly, the great solid oak doors flew open with a groan of iron hinges and a belligerent tenor voice snapped, "Don't let him in!"

A young man, closely followed two other young men resembling the first, stormed outside, half capes flying, their expressions unfriendly at best. These must be the al Din boys. All had their father's middling height, dark hair, trim, athletic build and expensive taste in clothing. The features of their face, though, were distinctively Gondorian; wide eyes, high brow, clean, sharp lines of chin and jaw. Traits that had, evidently, come from their mother.

The two younger men, both somewhere around twenty years old, stood solidly behind their older brother who was only a few years older.

"He's come here to burn the house down around us!" declared the leader of the trio, "You know what they say about him, father. He's not only an animal and a savage, but a demon as well!"

The spill of light from the open doorway illuminated his father's impatience. "Don't believe everything you hear. You're far too educated to believe in such tales. Only the ignorant are superstitious."

"Tales? Ha! Look at his hairy louse ridden face! I hear he prefers the company of boys and horses to women, the filthy, unshaven scut." The corners of his nose drew back and he sneered with unmistakable contempt as if smelling something truly revolting. He spat at Eomer's feet. "Run him through, father! Throw his body to the crocodiles and give his woman to me. Let me show her the difference between a man and a beast!"

Unbeknownst to them, Loti had been listening as they spoke oh so casually in Haradrim, planning her rape and Eomer's murder like it was something that they might discuss nightly around the family dinner table. The probability of that being what they did discuss at the dinner table was frighteningly high.

For that matter, they didn't even have the stones to say it in a language Eomer could understand, the cowards!

She should have known better than to say something, would regret later that she had, but the words were already oozing out like warm honey from a comb.

"And which would you be?" Loti taunted, falsely sweet, "Man or beast?"

This had the desired effect. His mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish's, stunned that he should be addressed so insolently by a mere woman. The other two brothers melted into a fit of snorts and wheezes and even his father gave a muffled "hmphf" of amusement. A strange reaction, that one…

"You—You!" he spluttered, flush faced, "Woman! How dare you—"

Eomer, clueless as to what was being said, stood still as a statue, hand at the ready on his dirk.

Cursing her big fat mouth, she cut him off in a most disrespectful manner, "He is an animal in ways you could only hope. While he is a stallion, you-" she paused for dramatic effect, wrinkling her nose in a dainty, but unpleasing way, "are a horse's ass."

Izz al Din's eldest son's self control unwound like a ball of yarn in a kindle of kittens, all the blood draining from his flaming purple face. "You…dare to…to speak to me…out of turn?" He was literally shaking with fury and stammering, barely able to complete a sentence coherently. "If this barbarous gorilla refuses to beat respect into you, I will see to it myself!"

Then with fists balled, the little mongrel charged forward like a bull after the color red.

Eomer might not have understood the words, but he knew aggression when he saw it. With a flick of his wrist in one direction and a grab in the other, he simultaneously thrust Loti behind him and drew the dagger in a flash of slivered steel. The green little sand flea skittered to a halt, hauled back by his father's arm only inches from the razor sharp tip, tongues of red flame gleaming off the footlong polished blade.

Eomer had, in time, learned approximately ten words in Haradrim, quite a linguistic achievement considering his vocabulary was limited mostly to grunts and all purpose 'mmhmms'. He spoke three of those words now through gritted teeth and with absolute certainty, his lips the only part of him that moved.

"You. Die. Fucker!"

Given the chance, there was no doubt in her mind that he would slice the brat from throat to cock without a moment's compunction.

It really didn't seem like Eomer was going to have the opportunity since the boy's own father was preparing to do the same.

"Hold your tongue, you ass!" he scolded, loudly and publicly, seizing his son by the gold braided collar and shaking. Not even the heir to the empire held influence over the man, al Din; this chieftain's power was absolute.

"But father," the young man hissed insistently, "Her insults are of the worst kind! This little bitch must be shown her place! Your guests will not want this animal and his whore sharing a table with them!"

They were speaking in Haradrim again, heedless of the fact that Loti could hear the whole argument. She was just a woman, of no consequence, helpless, harmless and unthreatening. Eomer, on the other hand, they found most certainly a threat, or why else would they be speaking Haradrim?

"My guests are my own concern and you insult me with your ignorance! See what happens when you play with vipers? They bite! They may be nice to look at but they are not to be kept as pets!" The chieftain poked one finger of his free hand into his son's puffed up chest, deflating his self importance, "You are an embarrassment and should know better." Jerking his son's collar, the young man stumbled, crashing into his brothers. "Now stand over there with your sisters and don't let me hear another word out of you, or I'll be the one to slit your belly open. Understand?"

The threat of violence now abated, a light touch of her hand on Eomer's upward thrusting arm made him slowly lower and sheath the dagger but his other arm came around her waist, pulling her close and sliding his hand inside the open back of her dress in a gesture of definitive possession. He was sweating freely; a bead of it rolled along the ridge of one eye brow and the linen of his regal looking tunic a bit damp. Apparently, defending bullheaded, loud mouthed damsels in distress was hard work.

She gave him a reassuring pat on the backside. He didn't seem to notice.

His eyes were fixed on al Din who was tugging on the lapels of his tunic, more to regain his equanimity than to straighten it. Turning his attention back to Eomer, he exhaled, shoulders squared. "Please excuse my son's behavior," he apologized formally, casting a dirty look over his shoulder at the disgraced fruit of his loins. Then, with an inviting sweep of his hand towards the open door Izz al Din smiled the reluctant, stiff smile of a man defeated, if only temporarily. "The pleasure of my household is yours to enjoy," he said.

But, as the clicking of her heeled slippers echoed off the cavernous stone ceiling of the foyer, Loti stole a quick glance over her shoulder. She had seen the dark brown gleam in the chieftain's eyes, something more than simple moon or starlight could account for. The reflexive smile of what could only be satisfaction—delight? pleasure?—which touched the corner of his mouth while he listened to her trade barbs with and humiliate the heir to his empire. Seen from a man in his position it was an inexcusable and unacceptable tirade! She had been purposefully insolent and willful; qualities in a woman which a proper southern man should abhor. She'd only said such things because Eomer was near at hand. But unless her eyes had deceived her, instead of being furious, Izz al Din had been excited. Why?

XXX

Eomer shot a quick blue glance in her direction. "See anybody you recognize?"

Situational paranoia was always a hazard of the job for a spy; the constant worry that one would be recognized and thus, cover blown. He must have seen her slinking around the edges of the crowded room like a mouse around the baseboards, avoiding the larger knots of people milling in Izz al Din's drawing room.

Earlier, just before they had left her tent and the rest of the camp for the evening, she had asked off handedly, "Just out of curiosity, what if someone should recognize me?" It was always a possibility, she supposed. In years of spying, she'd met and done other things with many a powerful man, some of which she feared might be in attendance at the party that night.

His face, inscrutable as it was when he was serious, didn't change, but his hand rose, unconsciously resting on the gem hilted dagger at his side. "Don't worry, I won't let them take you," he assured, then added much more ominously, "alive."

"No." Loti breathed a sigh of relief, "Thank the Valar. One less thing to have to worry about." She took a sip of wine, waited a beat, then took an exaggerated interest in the room. "It's a much bigger place than I imagined it would be," she admitted, making small talk.

Eomer's eyes dropped to the contents of his glass and he wrinkled his face, disgusted. "It's against my better judgment to take hospitality from a man who is a slaver. All of this," one solitary finger swept the room, "was built on the sale of free men and women in to slavery. You don't make this kind of fortune trading tea pots and trinkets to Gondor."

An imposing white stone edifice on the outside, inside, the chieftain's house was everything she might have expected from a wealthy merchant. The walls were paneled in dark wood and every inch of stone floor covered with intricately patterned wool and silk rugs, giving the large public rooms an air of coziness and welcoming intimacy. A large laid but unlit fireplace was the centerpiece at one end of the large drawing room while bookcases, crammed with hundreds of leather bound editions of some of Middle earth's greatest literary works of philosophy and science, lined the wall opposite. There were leather sofas, crushed velvet chairs upholstered in homey tones of sable and maroon, and cherry tables and coffee tables and other furniture, polished 'til they shone. Art was everywhere; landscape paintings and portraits on the walls mounted in horrendously gaudy gilded gold frames—there was no accounting for taste with some people even if they were rich and powerful—small pieces of porcelain, vases exploding with indigenous and exotic flowers, silver candlesticks, bronze nudes, crystal chandeliers, rare and priceless examples of the finest weaponry ever made.

Watching as he eyed two crossed scimitars over a doorway—she really hoped they wouldn't need those later—curiosity got the best of her. "Does your home look anything like this?"

Eomer snorted, white puffs of cigar smoke streaming out his nose. The whole room was full of smoke by this time, a fog of bluish white that lingered, swirling, about the heads of the partygoers and making Loti mildly nauseous despite the open balcony doors and the servants waving their gigantic feathered fans.

"Ghaw, no!" He picked up a painted porcelain figurine of two lovers frolicking in the nude around some bit of totally nonsensical architecture done in an overly exaggerated style. "It's a farmhouse. But you'll have a bed and plenty of food."

"Good, I like food," she said, and tilted her glass, smiling at him over the rim.

"So I've noticed. Mind, you might wake up the occasional pig in your bed," he casually mentioned.

"Don't you mean a rooster?"

One dirty blonde eyebrow folded down. "No…I meant a pig. The cook keeps a runted pig as a pet. Name's Fellow. He'll curl up at the foot of the bed if you let him. He makes a, ah… a good watch pig. Always snorting and chasing after strangers. If you leave the shutters open though, you might just find a hen roosting on the headboard come morning."

"I didn't mean actual roosters, you ninny. I meant you." She poked him in the arm feeling the loose stringy cords of muscle beneath the cloth.

He rolled the cigar meditatively between his fingers, the tip darkly moist from his wide, gentle mouth.

"Well, if it's a big cock you want in your bed, all you have to do is ask. I'm always happy to oblige a lady."

Loti choked, spluttering wine.

The room was full by this time and loud with the convivial babbling of guests reacquainting themselves or mingling between groups. They seemed for the most part to be dignitaries of various influential clans, shipping magnet and traders, and Haradrim military leaders, all accompanied by their wives or mistresses or other type of escort. Clusters of young men pushed and guffawed in the corners, already flushed with drink.

Ostracized and ignored, still, Loti insisted they make the rounds of the room, mingling, exchanging pleasantries and light conversation. With Eomer in tow, this would undoubtedly be a chore, but luckily, everyone spoke Westron. At times, they were greeted warily, but politely enough, and at others, with reserved hostility.

They had just taken leave of what Loti thought was the most uninteresting topic ever, the effect of taxation on trade goods with regard to international imports—Eomer was pro-trade, anti-taxation—and had wandered over to one of the open balcony doors. The room was stiflingly hot with so many bodies crowding the room, and compounded by the thick haze of cigar smoke. Small pearls of sweat were popping out on Eomer's face as he leaned against the door jam. Not much relief here either, but it did give the pair the opportunity to take stock of the situation.

"You need to relax," she suggested, "You're not doing a very good job convincing people we're lovers."

"Relax?" The word shot out of his mouth in a hoarse whisper, the northern accent thick as honey. "Ghaw, woman! Do you have any idea what you look like in that dress?"

"Mmm…No, tell me?"

"You're giving every man here a cockstand!" he grumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, every man, hmm?" Loti said in a saucy little voice and lowered feathery black lashes to see if Eomer included himself in the assessment "You sound like a jealous husband. You were in a much better mood earlier this morning."

He grunted and muttered something low and incoherent into his brandy glass, agitatedly jerking the skirts of his tunic into better order.

Using his arm as leverage, she stood on tip toe, craning her neck to see across the room.

"E, who is that man? Is that the negotiator from Gondor you asked for?"

The man she indicated was the approximate size and color of a sack of flour stuffed into ill fitting, but expensive black serge. Lumps and bumps and rolls pooched out everywhere the fabric tended to give so he looked like sausage packed into too small of a casing and was exploding out the cracks.

Eomer answered the question in his usually way; indirectly. "I ask them to send someone of influence, somebody who might put the fear of Eru into al Din. Like Duinhir or ol' what's his name from Anafalas, or even Imrahil. Show him they're taking this threat seriously. Instead, they send this fop!"

Evidently, "them" was Gondor's Council and this fop, the negotiator industriously consuming mini garlic toasts with red pepper aioli in a corner.

He made the I'm-disgusted-with-everyone's-incompetence sound, threw back the remaining brandy in his glass, snagged another from the tray of a passing footman, fished out the candied cherry in the bottom and tossed it over his shoulder and out the door to land with a heavy wet splat.

"What now?" he demanded. Agitation always tended to manifest itself in impatience with Eomer. They had come—metaphorically speaking—to dig through al Din's dirty laundry. Drinking twenty year old brandy and passing the night away in idle conversation with the elite of Haradrim society wasn't precisely how Eomer like to do things.

She noticed him shuffling his weight from foot to foot. "Are you in pain? Does your leg hurt? Should we maybe sit down?"

"No," he bit the word off. "What now?" he repeated.

_Of course not_, she mused, giving him one of her more dubious looks. Male pride what it was, he'd never in a million years admit the leg gave him pain unless the flesh was literally melting off the bone. And probably, not even then. For his own sake, Loti hoped he'd learned that _his _way of doing things, charging in, sword drawn, no real plan, screaming, and ready to murder everybody in a bloody and berserk rage wasn't exactly the most productive way of dealing with delicate political situations. Frightening as the thought was, she didn't think he had.

They nodded in greeting, courteously dipping heads to a couple coming in from a moonlight stroll on the balcony, doing their best to remain inconspicuous.

"Nothing right now," she told him, low voiced, "We have to find his private rooms. If we're going to find anything, it'll be there. But we can't start searching the place now." Loti rolled her eyes to the ceiling, indicating the two floors and dozens of room above them. "We'll be missed."

"When then?"

"Sometime after dinner, when things are a little more relaxed."

"Mmhmm," he intoned, agreeably, "At supper, do I get to eat by myself like a grown man with a fork and a knife, or do I have to let you feed it to me?"

"Oh, I get to feed you, certainly! They'll be insulted if you don't follow tradition. Think you'll be able to suffer through it?" she teased.

"Oh, I'll suffer," he muttered, meaning his pride would be what did the suffering, one of his absurdly long arms slipping around her waist.

He'd scarcely let her get more than an arm's length away all evening, afraid she'd be dragged off and sold into some other warlord's harem somewhere, never to be seen again, she supposed, automatically edging closer and allowing fingers to creep inside the open back of her gown to cup her waist. Maybe a little too far inside…

Lifting her head to give him one of her more severe scoldings, she shut her mouth without a sound and, instead, followed his intensely fixated gaze.

Through the sea of heads Izz al Din was visible, Loti and Eomer, the sole focus of his attention.

Surveying his host across the room, Eomer lifted his glass to the man with an air of mocking cordiality. Al Din returned the gesture with much less grace, the orbits of his eyes dark with shadow over the rim of his glass as the candles in the chandeliers began to gutter and go out, the red lined sclera of his eyes bright in the death's head face. His gazed shifted solely to Loti, perusing her slowly over the drink in his hand as though she were a side of beef in a butcher's shop and she felt a tickle in her tailbone, the twitch and tingle of an imaginary tale. If she'd had a tail, it would have curled between her legs.

The eyes then slid to one of the two women standing next to him, most likely one of his mistresses, a lovely, slender woman of mixed race gowned in sun yellow taffeta; all the better to highlight the soft chocolate hues of her skin. Without any provocation whatsoever, he very deliberately twined his hand in her black hair, jerked back her head and struck the woman in the face with the flat of his hand. Loti felt the slap in her own cheek and put a hand to it to stop the sting. Al Din hit the woman yet again, this time with the back of his hand, hard enough to split her lip. The sound of it was sharp and stinging and her cries of shock and pain echoed off the high stone ceiling of the drawing room.

Tough fingers bit into her side, pinching 'til Loti squirmed. If any of al Din's other threats had been veiled, this one was not.

With a gasp the crowd fell back, then fell silent, all talk ceasing as their host flung the woman to the floor in a blur of yellow silk, confused, bloody and whimpering. From the corner of her eye, Loti saw Eomer's hand twitch, instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. A fine vibration ran through the big body like the plucking of a very thin harp string. So acute was she to his reactions that the echo of it ran through her as it ran through him, raising all the hairs on her body. His light blue eyes had gone the color of the evening storm clouds outside, flashing like bursts of lightning, night black pupils shrunken to pinpoints, focused into the tunnel vision a warrior sees just before he meets his opponent.

Eomer could not bear to see a woman beaten, al Din likely knew that, but neither could he let the unspoken threat against Loti go unpunished. Nor could he risk getting himself killed in the process of defending either or both women's honor.

But Eomer didn't think of these things beforehand. It was his nature to act and to damn the consequences if or whenever they came.

A self proclaimed defender of the defenseless with a reckless, self destructive nature and an over inflated ego in a room of hostile enemy military leaders and clan chieftains all equally well armed with swords and knives hanging at their belts, this had the makings of a very messy international incident.

"No! Don't!" she hissed, half stepping in front of him as he made a move and wrenching on his sleeve. "He's trying to provoke you. Don't give him a reason to kill you."

There was a low, vicious rumbling that didn't come from the thunderclouds building in the distance.

The sudden tension in the room was broken when a footman appeared at the door and announced in a very uppity voice, "Dinner is served."

The guests seemed relieved by this and resumed their previous conversations, murmuring and shuffling off towards the dining room, leaving the woman in yellow silk to be helped back to her feet by a couple of dark skinned footman.

Eomer had managed to recover his sanity by this time. Well, maybe half his sanity. He gripped her around one thin arm.

"Do you trust me?" he demanded in his tightly controlled northern sing song way.

Not sure where he was going with this line of questioning, she answered without hesitation, telling him the truth. "Yes. Of course."

He blinked, taken aback. "You do?"

"Yes."

"Oh… Well, then… Good." And he smiled one of his rare, genuine smiles, full of white teeth and tinged with boyish sheepishness.

"What were you going to say?" she wondered.

A lock of gold bright hair had fallen forward into his face. He tucked it back behind his ear.

"I don't remember."

"Oooh…" said a cracked old voice from about the level of Eomer's navel, "My goodness! It's a giant!"

Staring arthritically up some eighteen inches into Eomer's face, gape mouthed and squinting, was a shrunken old woman of indeterminate ancientness. Gray hair streaked with black and wearing a black silk gown embroidered in gold threads, the old woman seemed quite spritely and un-enfeebled despite her age and shakiness.

"Oh," continued the wobbly voice, "how I do so love a big strong man-y. So nice and tall." Loti wasn't sure if the red in Eomer's cheeks was from the heat, drink, embarrassment, or restrained mirth. "Oh and look, you must be his lady! How nice. Go on. Give him a kiss and we'll go into supper."

Eomer looked down a Loti, who in reality wasn't much taller than the wizened woman in front of her, smugly amused, the jerk. "Yes. Go on then, give us a kiss."

Taken completely off balance, Loti's big, startled eyes darted from Eomer to the expectant little old lady.

She babbled. "Oh, ah, well, um…It's the, ah…Barbarians, you know," she said confidentially. "They have no self control when it comes to certain theee—ings-!" This last word was said in a high pitched upswing of voice as the hand of a certain Horse Lord descended on one half of her rump with a smack and a healthy squeeze. She shot him the briefest narrow eyed look. He ignored it, of course, and clutched her around the shoulder, pulling her, not without some resistance, towards his side. "See what I mean," she said, forcing herself to smile at the woman while Eomer squashed her against him. "All animal."

The crumpled old lady actually giggled, a sound like the tinkling of tiny bells. "Better a tiger in your bed, my dear, than a dead fish, I always say. Come along now to supper," she patted his stomach with one stick-like hand bedazzled in gold rings and slinking bracelets, "A big man like you needs feeding up."

She turned, her elderly bones creaking off towards the dining room with the odd arrhythmic shuffle-tapping of slippered feet and ebony cane.

"If you ever," Loti began, upper lip curled into a threatening half smile, half snarl, "grab my ass again, you'll lose that arm."

XXX

Dinner was a bizarre affair of forced casualness, carefully chosen words, small talk and furtive glances in their direction. The food was excellent as well as the drink which was a prerequisite for Eomer in these sorts of social situations. He looked remarkably well for a man who'd consumed six glasses and an entire bottle of brandy in so short a time; not woozy eyed or mumbling. When the conversation turned to politics and the women rose to retire to the drawing room for cream cakes and coffee, one of his fabulously charming smiles crossed his lips. Ascertaining he was lubricated and uninhibited—and therefore stupid enough—to engage in a bit of discourse with the enemy and having no interest in politics herself, Loti departed with alacrity, kissing him affectionately on top of his big blonde head. He winked like the rouge he so clearly was, a sweet smelling cheroot caught between his teeth, and squeezed her hand in reassurance.

The women talked of less important issues; babies and home decorations and the season's latest fashions out of Minas Tirith, things Loti found interesting but had no real knowledge about. Eventually, the conversation turned to every woman's favorite topic: men.

"My Jerah hasn't touched me in a month," a woman with enormous gold earrings complained in a whine, daintily brushing crumbs from her lap, "I think he's been taking his pleasures with the new black skinned slave wench from Far Harad. I don't know why, she's as ugly as a fist. But I suppose he's not looking at her face. I hear they couple from behind, like animals." She said this in a lowered voice for some reason and with such unmitigated distain that Loti found herself frowning objectionably, finding the woman both ignorant and offensive.

"Oh, Yusi, don't be so judgmental. The men of Far Harad are known for the size of their pricks. If only my own husband was that kind of animal. They say," said Yusi's friend, whoever she was, pausing dramatically over a tiny lemon cream cake, "once you go black you never go back." Seeing several pairs of eyes goggling at her, she drawled defensively, "What? I have seen them at the slave markets. I look. It's hard not too, such big things that they are."

"Myself, I prefer the company of my head footman," put in a middle aged woman with a voice like a low plucked harp string, wearing crushed green velvet and draped in the corner of a couch like a fox fur stole, "The feet, you know."

A young girl of about eighteen piped up, excitedly inquiring, "The feet? What about the feet? I don't know anything about feet!"

"My girl, every woman knows that the size of a man's feet is directly proportionate to the size of his…" Slinky green velvet, raised one thinly plucked brow.

"Well!" the girl announced haughtily, "If that's the case, then our girl over there should have at least one eye poked out!"

All eyes swiveled then to Loti, lounging inconspicuously in a damask arm chair, cup and saucer in hand. Her cheeks were flushed and burning hot, and not from the coffee into which she was conveniently burying her face.

Eomer did have very large feet…

The ladies waited patiently for an answer, some perched expectantly on the edge or their chairs. Those women looked a little too eager. Loti had seen some of them gawking at Eomer when their husbands weren't looking. In the end, she swallowed and set the cup back in its saucer with a soft chime, lifting her shoulders in an all knowing shrug. She'd personally seen that rock hard cock, and touched it, a thing none of these women were ever likely to do. Hopefully…

"They do say that it's not the size of the ship, but how the captain brings it into port that matters."

The women roared with laughter, snorting and wheezing over their coffee. Loti savored her small victory and that intimately personal knowledge she had of the Rohirric king but fell disheartened, wondering exactly how many other women also shared that knowledge.

The ladies continued in this fashion until the gentleman returned, whereupon the frivolity was immediately squelched.

Setting down her cup and rising from her seat, Loti wove her way through the crowd towards the decanters of brandy and port avoiding many a married man's roving eye, thinking it might be nice to have drink ready for Eomer when he returned also. There was one eye she was unable to avoid, though, as he had slithered snake-like right into her path.

"Ah, my dear, we meet again," charmed Izz al Din, gracefully taking her hand, raising it to his lips, and placing a lingering kiss on the backs of her fingers. If money and bad taste in art had a smell, then Izz al Din was soused with it. He stood bothersomely close like one of those people who don't know any better, the hand holding hers smooth as a noblewoman's. Not an un-handsome man, it was the way her looked at her, too intensely, too closely, that made her feel naked and exposed. "Allow me to welcome you properly to my home. It is unfortunate we should meet under such circumstances, with so much strain between our countries," obviously, he took her for a Gondorian. "And where has your man gotten off to? Such beauty should not be left unattended. I hope no mischief has befallen him." His liquid brown eyes gazed down at her as he breathed damply and a bit too heavily on the back of her hand. Wondering the exact same thing, she managed to extract the hand with a twist and a rather rude tug. Where in all of green Valinor was that big, dumb Horse Lord? "Perhaps, you would allow me to escort you. Only until he returns, of course." He was positively simpering and practically drooling. He was a chieftain for Eru's sake! What _was_ wrong with him?

"Thank you for your concern, sir, but I wouldn't worry about me or him," Loti said a bit more tartly than she should have, "His Lordship is perfectly capable. I'm sure he'll be back for me any moment. If you'll excuse me…"

And as fast as she could, Loti scooted discourteously past him, making a dash for the side board where the brandy bottles were kept, sensing as she watched her, his droopy bedroom eyes affixed to her exposed bare back, and thinking Eomer had been all to right about the dress. Izz al Din made her feel frighteningly unclean.

As she maneuvered past people a hand popped out of the crowd in an open handed reach for her backside; a pointed grope and go. But another much bigger hand quickly followed.

The man attached to the first hand made an unpleasant noise. The man attached to the second was Eomer, calmly wrenching one-handed on the offending appendage looking down at the man from on high like her own personal avenging Valar.

"Kindly keep your hands off my lady's fine ass," he suggested in tones as hard as tempered steel. "She's flattered, I'm sure, but I'm a jealous man."

Wheezing in agony, the man spluttered, "Why you—you—horse swiving cur-!"

Eomer had the advantage of leverage, being considerably taller and much stronger, and put the pressure on, bending the hand back further into a wholly unnatural angle. The man's knees buckled and he made another painful sound, losing all the color from his indignantly flushed face. Any more injudicious remarks and Loti was sure she would hear the crack of snapping wrist bones.

Normally a passably good speaker of Westron, in his anger Eomer let his accent devolve into the broad, thick tones redolent of his Rohirric ancestry. "Touch her again you shit eating, wife beating, boy fucking son of a bitch, and I'll lay you dead at her feet," he warned, teeth clenched tightly together through the sandy colored beard.

Abruptly, he released his hold on the man, who dropped like a stone to the floor clutching at his arm, leaving the partiers in the immediate vicinity bewildered and slack jawed at his display of force. But when Loti saw the blue glint in his eye, she didn't feel any safer than she had within reach of the anonymously groping hand. Seizing her around the waist, he bent his head and kissed her. Hard.

And kept on kissing her! Not just a quick kiss but a hard, punishing one; bruising her lips until she tasted the faint bitterness of blood! She squirmed in his arms, pushing against his chest and forearms, making little "mmmm!" mewling noises because she couldn't breathe. This did nothing to alleviate the problem. Instead, it seemed to only to encourage Eomer. Two big hands latched on to either half of her plump little rump, kneading and squeezing with obvious enjoyment before lifting her off the floor to dangle full length against him. Deciding she'd had just about enough male chauvinism for one evening, Loti raised a knee to root him a good one in the stones. Hampered by the skirt and how hard she was being held, the motion came off more like little leg kicks than a desire to render him temporarily impotent. After this abortive attempt he did set her down and Loti shoved him away hot eyed, red faced, swollen lipped and ready for battle.

"You!" she stormed, stomping one foot soundlessly on the carpeted floor, enraged, "You—You—" Poltroon? Scallywag? Blaggard? Voluptuary? None of these seemed appropriate for a lecherous, two faced, unprincipled, immoral, ignoble, unchivalrous jackass. "You fucker!"

She made wildly flailing swipes at his head with her nails like a vicious housecat swatting at a large and unconcerned dog.

Once, he'd told her to use speed not strength when fighting him. But, Loti had, unfortunately, forgotten that lesson. Eomer blocked a wildly swinging right hook, hoisted her over his shoulder like she was nothing more than a small sack of potatoes, picked up a thrown sliver slipper, crammed it back on her foot and carried her out through the double doors onto the balcony, arms and legs churning, screeching like an abused owl.

"I can't even leave you alone long enough to take a piss!" he scolded in Rohirric, dropping her unceremoniously to the ground. She staggered, off balance and light headed from being lugged upside down. "I come back and see you being molested by not one, but two different men!"

"You asshole!" she shrieked, madly pummeling, or attempting to pummel, him in the chest with balled fists, and drawing the attention of several other guests milling outside.

There were still interested people watching them through the open balcony doors as a brief struggle ensued which, to the untrained observer, could be described as either a unique kind of foreplay or out and out assault.

"I don't like the way he looks at you!" he told her bluntly. "Let go of my hair, woman!"

She left off chest punching, shin kicking, hair pulling and eye gouging, and chose, alternatively, to let her mouth drop open. A lock of disheveled hair hung over her eye, tangled in her lashes. "You noticed too?"

"Of course I noticed," he growled sharply, "I'm a man." Taking her by the elbow, Eomer propelled her across the balcony like a barge headed up river, depositing her next to the ornately carved stone balustrade. "I meant what I said. I'm as jealous as the next man. Now stay here. Don't let me find you gone from this spot," and striding off he disappeared inside. She lost sight of him in the gaggle of partygoers. Somehow it left her feeling alone and irrationally fearful.

Mustering her dignity, Loti, not yet finished feeling miffed and rather disorganized in appearance, straightened her gown, reordering it to lie smooth over her hips and thighs and tucked back the strands of hair that had come loose, fingers touching the gemstone clips adorning her chestnut locks.

_Ridiculous_, she told herself, swiping brown hairs out of her lashes. There was no reason to feel nervous or frightened. She'd done these sorts of intelligencing missions dozens of times before without any escort. And her escort now was one of the fiercest, not to mention reckless, warriors in Middle earth. _Absolutely absurd! _

Still… She wasn't quite sure if the apprehension was for herself or Eomer.

Through the open doors, Loti could see Izz al Din standing in a knot of men talking and laughing, playing the perfect host. He didn't see her, or rather, wasn't looking at her; even so she shrunk back, trying to blend inconspicuously into the night, gathering enough courage at least to give him a slitted evil eye. There was something not quite right about that man and his heavy lidded, wet eyed stare gave her the creepy crawlies, as though a thousand tiny mice feet scrabbled up her backbone. She shivered despite the warm night and began to fidget, swaying from foot to foot, rubbing at the tiny bumps that stippled her skin, more and more agitated with every passing second. Oh, she wished Eomer would hurry up!

Gone only a moment, he returned sooner than expected, the light of the torches glinting off his golden hair, backlighting his black clad form in an orange and yellow aura, and forcibly shoved a glass of some sort of sweet smelling wine at her. Instantly, everything in her body relaxed, only the lingering realization that he had made her life much more complicated remained.

"Here," Eomer commanded, "Drink."

His expression stern and imperturbable, he leaned back against the balustrade, facing the house in order to keep tabs on al Din, another glass of brandy wrapped in his hand. He'd had enough liquor to fell a small horse and yet didn't show any adverse side effects. Not for the first time, Loti wondered how much it would take to get him drunk. She's seen him intoxicated too often for her liking, but had never actually _seen_ him drink to excess. Drunkenness was a common problem among all classes, especially among men, so it wasn't unthinkable that it could affect a member of a royal house. Although not precisely a drunk, not in the same sense her mother had been, Eomer did have a propensity towards stupidity and other various forms of male jackassery when too deep in his cups.

"You're wrong, you know," she said, eyes moving from Eomer to the deep purple liquid in the glass and back. Too late she realized this was probably not the best thing to tell him, or any male member of the species, for that matter.

The big body stirred, a deep line of confusion forming as his brows knitted. "How's that?" he asked, interested.

"About the woods," she repeated, giving him a sideways look. "That wasn't the first time you'd seen me."

"No?" He scowled some more, pursing his lips in recollection. "No…That's right…" The lines and grooves of his features softened in remembrance, "You bumped right into me in the street when we were walking through the market. I forgot. Gods, woman, I thought you'd broken your nose!"

Annoyed, Loti admitted, "Not some of my finest work."

"What were you planning to do? Seduce me through pity for you?"

"No," she replied with marked impatience, "I was distracted. But I assure you, I still could have done it!"

"So why didn't you?"

She turned her head away, unable to speak, gazing past meticulously manicured lawns and gardens to where the river ran below, sleek and oily, light from the torches reflecting off the surface so it appeared as if it were on fire in spots. The night was still and muggy, not likely to get any cooler, with bursts of pink and lavender bubbling in thunderclouds far to the north and west.

_You are a liar_, she told herself. After lying with him, sharing his body and his bed, she could no more kill him than his cousin. How could she tell him she couldn't do it because he had reminded her, still did occasionally remind her, of—him…Theodred. Wetness burned her eyes, the back of her throat and she tried swallowing around the small lump growing there, a choking memory of possibilities forever lost.

Her senses were stretched thin as thread, heightened by emotion. Loti could feel Eomer next to her, the heat of his body, his energy radiating; he glowed like a coal, his presence both soothing and dangerous.

Eomer hadn't yet downed his drink, only held on it, swirling the brown contents, sunk in thought. Now, he threw the brandy back in three large gulps, summarily draining the glass and setting it aside. Loti believed this was what men called 'liquid courage', and it was an action as much as a beverage.

"Are you still mad at me?" asked Eomer in that soft, rich baritone. The resonant timbre of his voice was meant for his native Rohirric language and its hard glottal consonants and sonorous vowel sounds. Tenderly, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Not for just now. For everything…before."

"N-no," she stammered, uncertainly, watching a fishing catch cut through the inky water on its nightly downstream sojourn.

"Good," he answered, as though to himself, nodding slightly, although she hadn't failed to notice once again, his unwillingness to apologize.

He pushed himself off the railing of the balustrade and turned to Loti, placing a hand in the middle of her back, closing the distance between them so they were almost touching.

"You did look pitiful, I'll give you that," he said, "Pathetic, but very beautiful."

His touch had moved, his thumb making delicate circles at the nape of her neck in a caress that raised the tiny downy hairs there and sparked fine surges of heat from his fingertips, lancing strait through her heart to the warm core of her center as they slid light as butterfly feet along the hollow groove of her back, over the satiny fabric, and continuing down the crease of her buttocks.

She gasped, scandalized. "Eomer!"

"I was wrong about your gown. It moves over your ass and hips when you walk like you're coated in oil and I can see your nipples stand up whenever you see me or when I stand close to you, like they are now," he observed, lips murmuring near the pink shell of her ear.

He was right, her nipples were hard and stinging, almost to the point of pain, her breasts feeling heavy under the light cloth. She took a deep, somewhat ragged breath, the small rounds of her chest straining against the fabric and Eomer let out a little sound of pleasure, putting both arms around her waist, pulling her in.

Every muscle in Loti's body tensed then, her eyes flew open, and she went stiff and unwieldy as a wooden fence post. The cock was most definitely crowing…

"Eomer!" she hissed under her breath, "Are you drunk?"

"No. Your hair smells good," he said, nuzzling.

"Then—" Loti had begun to struggle, but Eomer put a stop to that, wrapping his arms about her more tightly. "What-?" she started to say with a flash in her eye and some heat in her voice.

A chuckle rose from his chest like the rumbling of distant thunder, taunting Loti with her own words. "Relax. You're not doing a very good job of convincing people we're lovers." And then with a high pitched yelp and a female squeal of startlement, Eomer grabbed her under the thighs and whisked Loti off her feet, plunking her down on the wide stone railing of the balustrade. The marble stone was cool under her rear and the backs of her legs in spite of the night's heat and cloth of her gown.

The night air wasn't the only thing hot on her skin He stood between her spread legs, a most vulnerable and intimate position for a woman, his horseman's thighs hard and warm against the slender softness of her own inner thighs.

Eomer wasn't known for his communicativeness, but he was doing a good job of communicating his intentions now, fingering back the neck of the dress slightly and dipping his very wet, very warm tongue into the hollow of her collarbone, licking, challenging. It was quite possibly the most erotic thing any man had ever done.

"Eomer." This time she said his name weakly and with much less protest.

His lips had moved on the much more interesting territory, nipping at her neck, the short, coarse hairs of his beard tickling her skin.

"Tell me," he said in a breathy voice between kisses, "Tell me how you would have done it."

She was trying very hard not to enjoy what he was doing. "Done it?" Her eyeballs were beginning to roll back into her head. "Seduce you, you mean? I already told you that."

"Not how. I know how. I mean, I want to know… _how_."

His teeth clamped down lightly on the dangling gemstone earbob, tugging, then nibbling and sucking on the fleshy lobe of her ear. Loti let her eyes roll back and wilted like an unwatered flower. He smelled of leather and horses mingled with the sweet pungency of cigars and harsh musk.

Loti let out a low moan from the back of her throat before cutting it off with a sound like a choked pig. Was she really melting into a puddle of green jewels and satin fabric over a little bit of earlobe sucking?

"Not until you tell me—E!" she squeaked, his wet tongue poking into her ear hole. "Not until you tell me what you're playing at? I don't think the honeyed pheasant at dinner gave you a sudden attack of lustfulness!" she finished through gritted teeth.

"The honeyed pheasant? No. Honey of a different kind…. Definitely!"

"Oh, don't be an ass!" she snapped back.

He pulled back a little, angling his head so his mouth was very near hers, the blond hairs of his mustache prickling her upper lip. Neither of them could look the other directly in the eye, nor could they let their gaze linger on their lips, so close to touching. His breath smelled of brandy, hot and spicy.

"I'm giving us a reason to go upstairs," he told her and cut his eyes towards the sprawling house and its multiple stories, glass paned balcony doors and windows dark with the night.

"Oh…" she said, slightly embarrassed that she hadn't caught on quicker, and smiled, relieved. Eomer smiled too with that 'hmphf' laugh through his nose and a spray of fine lines from the corners of his eyes. "Eomer, you are positively primeval!" she added in tones of admiration and flirtation. "Like some kind of First Age demon."

He straightened up and plucked at the laces of his britches where a large, interesting bulge pressed against the woolen fabric. "Ah, well…The things I do for the love of my country. I'll have a pair of sore balls later, I expect."

"We'll make a spy out of you yet!"

"Mmm, well, if part of a spy's job is seducing beautiful women, I think you just might be right." Leaning forward, Eomer set the palms of his hands on the tops of her thighs, the wide, wickedly curved mouth grazing over the round of her shoulder, nuzzling into the curve of her neck, inhaling the clean, light scent of her body. "And speaking of seduction, you were about to tell me how you were going to get me into bed."

Loti giggled and pushed him away as he purposely rubbed his bearded cheek over her throat, tickling. "You're a well known as a skirt chaser, you know. It wouldn't have been hard."

Eomer put a hand to the crotch of his breeches again, adjusting the fit. "Oh, you're wrong about that," he cringed, joggling his most sensitive parts.

"Well, too bad for you, because I don't kiss and tell. You'd have died a happy man, though!" Loti hastened to add, still giggling at his not overly exaggerated discomfort.

"I dare say," he agreed dryly, smoothing his hands down the chest and skirts of the fine black leather tunic and thumbing hair off his shoulders and out of his well groomed beard. He held out a hand to Loti, rough in appearance, yet unfailingly firm of grip. "Care to go upstairs with me?"

"Hmm, depends on what for? To do what we came here to do, or for a quick kiss and cuddle in a dark corner?"

At first he joked, then feigned affrontment."'Come step into my web,' said the spider to the fly. I'm offended."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said, one dark blue eye slanted, "The spider and the fly part, that is."

"Hen, believe me, if I wanted to do more than squeeze your ass and smell your hair, I'd of had you on your back in the bushes down there an hour ago. I'm a barbarous savage with the uncontrollable urges of an animal, remember. I don't need the civility of a room or a bed or even privacy for that matter." He stepped back, extending his arm to its full length, palm up, looking down at her, regally handsome and chivalric as a knight.

Her hand looked strange in his, small, almost frail in contrast to the sheer brutality of his, like that of a bird inside the mouth of a lion.

Hand in hand, they made their way through the crowd in the direction of the stairs, receiving more than one knowing look from the men, and pouts of disappointment from several women along the way.

XXX

Eomer stopped suddenly at the top of the stairs and poked his head around the corner.

"Ah….shit," he swore under his breath. Was nothing ever easy?

This hall wasn't any different than the last; long, dark, and lined with dozens of paneled doors with the odd curtained alcove here and there. How were they ever supposed to find Izz al Din's private suit of rooms? Start jiggling on door knobs?

He was pondering the effectiveness of this strategy, when Loti, hot on his heels, practically cannoned into him from behind. She teetered precariously in her heeled slippers and would've gone back down the steps head first if he hadn't used the reflexes honed in years of swordplay and snatched her back from a potentially deadly fall. After that, there was a lot of heavy breathing and nervous giggling in the dark stairwell as he held her tightly around the waist but any arousal he'd felt earlier was lost to the prospect of random door knob wiggling. Perhaps, later, the substance that ran through his veins might thicken back into blood, allowing other parts of him to thicken as well, but for the moment, it ran thin as water.

Putting a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet, he let Loti go, set a hand on his dagger and stepped into the carpeted hall. It wasn't a completely black space, but in contrast to the reckless expenditure of beeswax blazing on the main level two floors below, it might as well have been the inside of a coal hole. A single candle burned in a sconce every so often down the long corridor, it's small bubble of yellowish light fading out long before it touched another, plunging them back into semi darkness as they walked. It was an interior hallway and therefore, insulated and cool, Bema be thanked, although it had that slightly musty smell of old castles, or stone fortresses, like The Deep; one of damp rock and the dyes used to tint the wool rugs under foot.

"How do you know what you're looking for?" Loti demanded in a whisper.

He turned, giving her a mildly dirty look. "I don't. You're the spy. Don't you have any bright ideas?" In actuality, he was sort of hoping there might literally be a sign saying something blatantly obvious like "Office of the Chieftain."

They passed five doors, then seven, each resembling the last, coldly solid, keeping the secret of what lay behind them safely hidden.

Deep in concentration and other mental mutterings, Eomer hadn't noticed Loti's attempts to get his attention, until he heard his name in her voice, whispering harshly.

"Eomer, you big oaf!"

She yanked hard on his sleeve and he whirled on his booted heel, looking equally as frustrated as he felt. Loti didn't appear any less flustered, what with some of her hair beginning to frizz in the humid confines of the hallway, but her eyes, open wider than normal conveyed something other than just irritation. In a frantic flurry of hand signs and mouthed words, she put a finger to her ear, then pointed back the way they had come, towards the stairs, her lips forming the words, "Listen!"

The girl must have the hearing of a white tail deer, he thought as his own ears picked up the sound of footsteps and male voices echoing up the stone stairwell like muffled words out of a well. Suddenly, a pair of shadows popped up against the far wall of the corridor like distorted black demons, soulless as their familiars in the wavering candle light.

He was already pacing, swinging around—acting like an indecisive politician, damn it all—searching for a place to stow themselves until the men passed. The excuse that they were two enamored lovers looking for a place to tryst would only get them so far. If discovered by a pair of sentimental, soft hearted old fools—mooshed up even more by copious amounts of brandywine—they might actually want to assist Eomer in finding a room, complete with bed. Not to mention that being discovered slinking aimlessly through the house would draw the unwanted attentions of not only the guests but the servants too, and inevitably Izz al Din, seriously putting a damper on their mission and quite possibly, their lives.

As Loti was forming the words "We need to hide!", Eomer had already taken the bit between his teeth, propelling her down the hallway at a run, sword blade slapping at his thigh. At the end of the hall, he skidded to a halt, leather boot soles sliding across the carpet, the entire corridor veering off to the right, continuing into gloom, leaving them still stranded with no place to hide. he skidded to a halt where the entire corridor made a right hand turn and kept on going. He looked to his left where there was one of those curtained alcoves set into the wall, then right, then left again, and then over his shoulder. The shadows of the men were no longer slanted with the incline of the stairs but bobbing tall and slender, perpendicular to the floor, almost cresting the top of the stairs!

Well, there was no help for it. Cursing his own bad luck, Eomer whipped Loti, stumbling over her own feet, to the left and into one of the alcoves, whisking the curtain shut behind him. It was a small space, probably used by the servants or some such and not exactly a comfortable fit with the both of them crammed behind the velvet drape. It smelled strongly of vinegar and something else he didn't want to think about.

"E! They'll see your feet!" Loti was saying, "They're too big!" And then she dissolved into a fit of unhinged giggles like one of those women conveniently tucked away from the rest of society in the mentally deranged section of the House of Healing.

Bending his head, he saw candle light gleaming off the polished black toes of his boots and shuffled his feet into the deepest shadowy recess of the alcove so they weren't sticking out the bottom.

"Hush, woman!" he hissed, demanding compliance, which she ignored completely, her petite form quivering with mirth next to him like a buzzing bee. The voices were getting louder, the men nearer. He wanted to hear snippets of the conversation, wanted to hear anything besides all the crazed giggling!

Enough finally enough, he clapped a hand around her mouth to stifle any more exclamations, pulling her too him, back to belly. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Looking down at Loti, she was breathing hard through her nose on to his hand, chest rapidly rising and falling, the tiny tips of her small breasts pricked with excitement.

It was stuffy and hot in that little space, especially with Loti pressed against him and his blood roaring so close to the surface of his skin, inside his ears, making it still harder to hear. He was starting to sweat, dampening the linen of his under tunic and he could smell himself, sharp and feral as a bull elk in rut.

The figures were approaching their hiding place, footsteps softly plodding on the carpet.

"It really was a shame, wasn't it?"said one voice in tones of disappointment.

"Oh, yes, really a shame. I was so looking forward to meeting his new lordship," concurred a second voice. By their speech, they were older, sophisticated men and somehow, Eomer thought, portly, although there was no split in the curtain to confirm this assumption when the pair came to a stop at the conjuncture of the two hallways. One of them was smoking a pipe; the heavy herbal smell of sweet smoke permeated the velvet of the alcove's thick curtain. Anything was better than vinegar, though. "Seems like an awful long way to come, though, for brandy and good company. Although I must say, it is excellent brandy!"

"Ah, as to that," Eomer, sighed, listening as the first man settled in, more than willing to divulge a bit of gossip. "From what I understand, this wasn't a social occasion at all. The new lord was coming to try to raise support and money from the clans."

Absorbed in listening, Eomer had let the grip around Loti's mouth slip. She wiggled her head and chomped down on his finger like she was trying to bite it off. Damn it all, she was like a dog worrying a bone! His bone! He bit back a groan and several impolite words for women and, after a few tugs, managed to yank the finger, stinging, out from between the gnashing teeth, flailing it in the air. Then they exchanged rude hand gestures involving different fingers. In the end, Eomer wrapped his arms around Loti's waist, instead of bopping her on the head like she deserved, and pulled her to him, stiff but unresisting, leaning back against the cool stones of the wall, ears flapping.

What was this 'support and money' business? And who was this 'new lord'? A new clan chieftain?

Someone else was wondering the same thing, apparently. "Money and support? Support as in men?" asked second man, both stunned and excited. "What is he trying to do, raise an army?"

"It certainly appears that way. Izz told me that he, himself, has been charged with assembling the clans for his lordship and uniting them. Well…as much as possible, I suppose—you know how scattered and uncooperative the clans can be—Anyway, he, his lordship that is, not Izz—they call him Ar-Ghazwan, did you know that?—he fancies making himself overlord not only the Corsairs in Umbar but High King of Harad as well."

It must have been the second speaker with the pipe. He choked on the smoke at this revelation and coughed rackingly for a few moments before squawking in a voice as raspy as sandstone, "High King?"

Lifting her head to Eomer, her face a pale oval in the dark, Loti formed the words "Did you know this?"

He raised his shoulders in the smallest of shrugs and shook his head in negation. No, he hadn't heard this, but Umbar was a hell of a distance away and it wasn't as if Gondor and Rohan were on friendly terms with Corsair Lords; no ambassadors or political envoys were stationed there. Besides, information traveled slowly in these sparsely occupied areas, mostly through word of mouth when it did, either by sailing merchants or via caravan traders trudging northward. Who knew when this coup had taken place! Last week? Six months ago! If this new Corsair Lord was smart, and it appeared he was, any accurate information about exactly what had happened, who he was, and what he was planning could easily be suppressed through rumor and conjecture.

"Well, you know how these Corsairs are. Ambitious to no end. And vengeful. More money than brains sometimes," first man criticized.

"And what does al Din get out of this?"

"He'll become the right hand man to the new High King of Harad and Umbar. What the Gondorians have. A Steward. Or at least that's what he's been promised."

Impressed, second man exclaimed, "I say!"

"Well, it does make sense, doesn't it? Izz is the most powerful chieftain now. The wealthiest, the largest clan, best trained clansmen, the most land and the most strategic location, right along the river and the border…"

Second man, the pipe smoker, had been tapping the tip of his pipe against his teeth, making thoughtful, dull clacking sounds when he interrupted his friend's catalogue of reasons for Izz al Din's new position of prominence. "I'm not so sure I want to throw my support behind just anybody. Look at that last Corsair Lord, what a bungler he was! Who is this new man? Where did he come from all of a sudden? I have a reputation to uphold, you know. I don't want to associate my name with-"

"Well, I'm not really sure, am I?" first man cut in, "All I know about it, I heard through rumor, except for what Izz told me. That's why his lordship had come up from Umbar, I suppose, so we could meet him and hear what his plans are. Although, I do know he was a military man, a great soldier. He over threw the last high Corsair Lord with only forty men. Men, I might add provided by our host tonight." The man suspired, a long regretful exhalation that turned hateful. "I was looking forward to meeting his lordship. It's really too bad that disgusting man and his pox ridden whore had to show up. Are all northern men as filthy and hairy as he? What would a beautiful girl want with a man like that?"

"Ah, well," Eomer's ears where practically burning. Juicy bits of gossip always seemed to begin with those two words. And, alright, he was curious to hear what other tales would be added to his ledgend. " they say his mother like to bed with cattle, you know which ones I mean, those big shaggy northern ones with the long horns. You know how loose those northern women are. They'd spread their legs for anything with a prick. He takes after his father, I daresay. Bull cocked, stubborn as an ox, and just as shaggy."

Then they laughed. Laughed…Guffawing like it was funny. Like it was amusing to disparage a man's mother in front of him. He took a deep breath, bunching his muscles, grinding his good teeth together; the teeth his mother had nagged him to keep so fine. It was different when remarks were made about him; he was a man, could defend himself. But to besmirch a dead woman's honor…his own mother's honor! Behind closed eyelids, Eomer could see himself bursting from behind the curtain, cracking their heads together and beating them bloody with his own two hands. If his father had been a beast, then his son had inherited something else besides a lot of hair and a big cock—a pair of really large balls.

He must've done something, made a noise, flinched, in his daydreaming, because suddenly Loti was doing her level best to try and squash him into the wall. Though, she was so small, he would've likened it more to a fly trying to flatten a horse. Her nails were digging like pinchers into his wrists. The pale oval of her face emerged out of the dark again mouthing the word, "No."

She knew what he was thinking, knew him too well, in fact. His tight hold around her waist relaxed and she set her hands atop his. They were such soft, delicate hands, like bird's feet.

He pulled her to him and fell back into their tiny, stuffy little sanctuary, the crown of her head resting in the hollow of his chest, her tight, round bottom pressed against his thighs.

On the other side of the curtain, the men's laughter died away. There was a pause, a break in the conversation; something nervous, filled with tension that Eomer could sense; a tight pulling in his chest.

The pipe clacked on the man's teeth once more. "What about this girl, this missing spy? Any word on her? Has anyone seen her?"

In the circle of his arms, Loti went ridged as a man long dead.

The first man seemed as eager to spill the bean about this topic as he had been about the Ar-Ghazwan fellow. Ghaw! Men really were worse than women when it came to gossip!

"Now from what I've heard," first man said, conspiratorially, "She never met with her handler in Minas Tirith, so they suspect she was captured and is currently a prisoner of the Rohirrim. They're soft hearted fools, those Rohirric bastards. Like women they are. They'd never execute her even if she _was_ trying to assassinate their king."

Her fingers had gone cold as icicles, a notable contrast to the heat of his own skin, and Eomer thought she might have a stopped breathing, the constant of the rise and fall of her chest now barely perceptible. He wrapped his arms around her chest and shoulders, taking her to him, giving her his heat, resting his chin on the top of her brown head.

He continued on, "Ar-Ghazwan has raised the bounty on her head. Twenty thousand gold pieces to the man who finds her and drags her back, the cunt. The little bitch will turn up sooner or later, rest assured."

Eomer about choked. Twenty thousand gold pieces? For Loti? For a woman? No, he reconsidered, not for a woman, not for a person. Ar-Ghaz-whatever his name was wanted his property back. She was like a prized sheep that had wandered off, or a stolen First Age antique vase, valued not for its beauty or the joy of its company, but for its price as an object. An investment.

Twenty thousand gold pieces was several years' income for a large estate. Tempted by this much money, surely there would be bounty hunters eagerly and actively trying to track her down.

_Well_, he told himself,_ better to be lowly in spirit and among the oppressed than to share plunder with the proud. _None of this was her doing. And now having cast his lot into the fire with hers, her safety, her life was his responsibility. Head hunters be damned.

"I'll never let them take you." Loti shivered, whether from fear or from the breath of his words past the pink whorls of her ear, he wasn't sure. Other words he'd omitted from that declaration caught in his throat, though they echoed like the tattoo of a war drum in his mind. _From me._

The suggestion was made that they partake of al Din's extraordinarily fine stock of brandy in private and the two unknown, unseen men disappeared down the hallway, like rats Eomer thought, discussing more trivial matters.

When they were gone, she turned to him, pressing her face into the leather of his tunic, shaking, not crying, just shaking, and he'd held her—for minutes? for hours? It didn't seem to matter—touching all down the length of their bodies, at chest and belly, hips and thighs and knees. His hands were inside her gown, stroking the smoothness of her sides and back; understandably, the poor girl was terrified she'd be returned to whatever life she came from or worse.

He could feel his body rousing to hers, becoming half hard. These days, it seemed he was constantly going around half hard and aching in his britches.

Well, the only way Eomer was going to resolve this growing problem was to think of something else…like piracy and- Gods damn, what would Gondor's council do when they heard this new development about the Corsairs? Eomer knew what they would do, and he would never accept the notion that doing nothing was a political strategy. They would consult him, of course, ask him what he would do, if only out of courtesy since Rohan was Gondor's longest and staunchest ally, then dismiss any opinions he had on the subject as if he were some inexperienced boy king instead of a lifelong soldier. Why did they even bother?

Nothing ruined a perfectly good cockstand quite like thoughts about assholes, particularly incompetent ones.

He'd always thought the Corsairs of Umbar to be dirty, disreputable types, the stereotypical kind that wore tattered knee britches and eye patches and tarred ponytails, images perpetrated by the bed time stories of his youth, but a few nights of drinking with Imrahil quickly disabused him of that notion. After all, what did Eomer, a man born and raised in the prairies and meadows of the Riddermark, know about ships and piracy on the high seas. He'd lived his whole life hundreds of miles from the coast, had never even seen the sea, and was nauseated by watching a stick bob in a stream. Imrahil, fortunately, was well versed on the subject. The Corsairs, the Prince had informed him one long night in a Minas Tirith tavern over dice and beers, were not desperate men, but merchants, educated, wealthy and calculating. These were men who claimed decendency from Castamir the Usurper and the men of Numenor. Oh, to be sure, there were certainly roving bands of pirates raiding the coasts of Middle earth all the way north to the Cape of Forochel or coming farther inland, up the great rivers to plunder, but these were small, independent crews with no allegiance to anyone but themselves. What made the Corsairs of Umbar so formidable was their organization, their ability to unite to accomplish a single goal.

Umbar was a place of trade, yes, but also a place of rebellion; a haven for the enemies of Gondor and the two had a long and bloody history.

And just what exactly was Eomer supposed to do about it? Wave his magic sword and rectify two Ages and several thousand years of hatred and bloodshed!

That was the trouble with being a King. You were expected give simple answers to complicated questions.

Eventually, Loti calmed, ordering her emotions, and Eomer gave her a quick squeeze, sidling to the curtain. He winked back the edge just far enough to peer out with only one eye, looking and listening for more interlopers. A door opened some ways down the hall and a woman stepped out of a room wearing light gray linen, a white apron and a matching cap on her head resembling a lace edged jellyfish. Stopping at the next door in line, she took a jangling ring of keys from her apron pocket, unlocked the door and went inside. The maid, he realized. Except…there was something oddly familiar about that maid. How was that possible? He didn't know any women here, did he?

Curiosity got the better of him and when she emerged once again, Eomer turned to Loti. "Stay here."

"But—" she started to protest.

"I said stay here!" he whispered in that tone of voice that brooked no argument and slipped from the alcove, approaching the woman with caution, a weird unnatural fluttery feeling in his stomach.

It was only as he came within a few steps of the woman did his mind flash with recollection; a tangle of bed sheets and bare limbs, an urgent meeting of two bodies in the dark. In the flickering yellow candlelight, she looked much the same as when he'd last seen her.

The maid was preoccupied with her set of keys, spirals of thick brown hair hiding her face. She never heard his light step on the carpet.

"Alima," it was loudly whispered in half question, half exclamation, "What are you doing here?"

She started like she'd been stabbed with a pitchfork, gasping, the keys jingling loudly in the still stone hall. Then she actually saw him and her face split into a huge grin of instant recognition, the whites of her eye and her teeth bright in her dark skinned face, one hand pressed to her still heaving bosom.

That same sort of wing flapping anxiety in his belly returned, the kind he's gotten as a boy when trying to chat up more experienced women, a realization that he was both happy and relieved to see her. It flapped a little faster when he saw she was happy to see him, too, and he smiled nervously, like a man whose two lovers where about to accidentally meet.

"Oh! Big yellow man!" she beamed in that voice that was like shoes scuffling over gravel. Now Eomer was even more embarrassed. Had he taken her to bed and never given her his name? Well, at least he'd had the courtesy to ask for hers first.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated.

Unfazed by his unexpected appearance, she answered the question without hesitation, in her limited and eccentric Westron, preening proud as a peacock. "You say do other work. So I go, find job. I maid now!" She frowned, shadowy lines creasing her forehead. "What you do here? Oh…" The corners of the light brown lips curled in a way that made Eomer worried. "You at party, hear Alima maid here now. You come looking. I not whore anymore," she waggled a finger at him like he should know better than to come seeking sexual favors from her, "but you big balls, strong cock. Do me big help, you do. I have room, downstairs. Bed. I do you for free." Here her hand shot out, fingers curled like the upside down legs of a spider, as if to give him a preview of what she would be pleased to do for him later. As a general rule, men dislike fast movements in the direction of certain body parts and Eomer flinched, instinctively putting a hand over those big balls.

He laughed one of those short quick half laughs of the unnerved and removed the hand from his crotch, unable to shift his gaze from her sable brown eyes. "Oh," he said like a simpleton, and let the corners of his mouth turn up shyly, scooping a hand through his hair, rather flattered. Every living man liked to be complimented on his virility.

Behind him, Eomer heard the whisk of the curtain and the sharp hissing of his name.

"Ah…" he said, surprised at the forcefulness with which she called out, "Mmmhmm."

Turning, he beckoned Loti forward with a curt gesture bordering on rudeness and cut her the pursed lip, narrow eyed look that said, "Keep your mouth shut."

Loti's eyes went the shape of half moons, two icy slits of blue, glaring at the other woman with proprietorial suspicion as she came to stand at his side, claws, at least for the moment, retracted.

"Ooooh!" Alima's came alight with understanding, "I see. You want three ways, yes, yes? At pleasure house, some men like bring other men, some like bring other woman." She displayed the this hand, that hand motion. "Extra one, cost extra. But you big man, two women no trouble for you." And then as if knowing it would make all the blood drain from his head and his vision go blurry, she began describing the night's impending festivities. "First, you want watching me and her. She pretty girl. I like women fine, too. You like watching pretty girl and me. Then, your turn…"

Eomer gulped, damn near choking, trying to erase the image this offer conjured. The pervert that he was, Eomer couldn't take his eyes from Alima's full, honey tinted lips or his thoughts from this morning's conversation about Loti's lack of hair in a certain region of her body. Suddenly, his clothes felt very tight and his penis, which was on a direct line of communication with his brain, wouldn't let this image go, either. _Bema!_, he prayed, but wasn't sure if this was a prayer for her to stop or for her to keep going. He wanted them. Both. Together. Very badly. Sometimes, being a man wasn't what it was all it was cracked up to be. Sometimes, it was a bitch.

"Ah, no. Thank you just the same." His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. Grabbing Loti by the shoulder, he hauled her against his side; she seemingly none too pleased. "She's, ah…not that way inclined." Alima shrugged, unoffended.

Tipping his head in the direction of the curtained alcove, he said, "We were, ah…looking for a place to be more private," and arched a brow in a discreetly suggestive way.

Not inclined to such delicacy, but still quick enough to get the hint, Alima the erstwhile whore, now maid, answered, "You wanting room to take pretty girl for—"she broke off, making a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand and inserting the forefinger of the other hand through the center of the circle several times in an unmistakably crude gesture, then nudged him in the ribs a few times in a way that was usually reserved for men telling bawdy jokes.

Loti, finally, snuggled up to him, convincingly lover-like—my gods!, they were assaulting him from all sides! Let Alima think what she would but right this minute, the best he could do was to find a secluded spot for he and Loti to talk and regroup. Alima shook her head apologetically, spiral curls brushing her cheeks. "Big party, lots of people. Rooms all full up."

"There's no place, then, at all?" He expressed skepticism, pairing a lifted eyebrow with a dubious sounding voice.

The creamy, light brown brow furrowed again as she thought. "Mmm…Me, I like you. You big man, good to Alima. I think one place. Come, you follow."

Decision made, they trailed back through the hall after the maid, down a set of stairs to the second floor, stopping only to take a lit taper and its holder from a hall table. After walking a stone lined hall equally as dank and dark as the earth from which they were quarried, passing door after identical door, Alima came to a halt and extracted the ring of keys from her apron pocket. She inserted and discarded a few of the skinny, long shanked pieces of metal until choosing the right one, whereupon the tumblers in the lock let go with a clack, and the door sprang open a few inches. Handing the candle to Loti, Eomer propelled her—well, it was Loti, so it was more like forcibly inserting a cat into a sac—through the doorway into the dark room.

"Why you-!" she spouted.

The door closed firmly in her face and the key squeaked in the lock as it was turned, the half completed oath muffled by and inch and a half of solid wood the wood. A few more sounds came from inside, the jiggling of the door handle and a loud thump as the door was kicked before silence descended in the hallway once more.

"Alima," Eomer said, her name hollow and low in the thick silence of the hall, like speaking in a tomb. Catching her by the elbow as she turned to go, his fingers slipped along her forearm to her wrist, the shapes of the bones strong underneath his grip. "Do you still have some of the money I gave you?" She nodded and grunted an affirmation in her rugged deep voice, confused. "Good. This isn't a safe place any more. You need to leave."

Her head shook at his insistence. "But I like maid. Is good job, not whore. I respectable," she argued.

Eomer rested his big hands on her shoulders, cupping the rounded slopes. Shaking her gently to focus her attention, he jiggled the curls, making the big coffee brown eyes blink owlishly, needing her to understand his urgency. "Alima, listen to me! Something bad is going to happen here." Those lovely full lips opened to object. Why did women always have to argue? Couldn't they accept that sometimes a man knew what was best? He shook her again for emphasis, not threatening. "The clans are going to rise again. Soon. Take what I gave you and go north. Follow the Harad Road to Minas Tirith and find my sister. Give her this," pulling hard and twisting, he managed to work the signet ring off one gnarled finger. The knuckles were so swollen and smashed, the skin so thickly calloused, once he got the damn ring on, it was nearly impossible to get it off. Picking up an unresisting hand, Eomer dropped the fat gold ring into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "Tell her I'm fine. She'll find work for you as a house maid or a lady's maid or a milk maid, whatever kind of maid you want to be!"

It was a lot to throw on a young woman. She stared up at him blankly, clearly overwhelmed, eyes moist in the faint candle light, wet with unshed tears. He couldn't fault her reluctance, but he had rescued her once before… Would she allow him to do it once again?

Bravely, her head bobbed on her slender brown neck, mechanical as a child's toy in agreement.

The fingers of the hand holding the ring unfurled and she brought it to her face, examining the gold pierce work, the enameling, and inlaid jewels critically. It was not an inexpensive piece of goods to entrust to a penniless—or almost penniless—Haradrim woman.

"You not regular. Just rich man," she observed, slowly gazing up at Eomer over the old piece of jewelry that was his identifier. It was an ancient bit of family history, really, handed down by the Lords of the Eastfold to their heirs: from father to son. He had taken it from his own father's bloody finger upon that man's death.

Alima went on, knowing. "You important man, great man. Like chief."

He snorted, amused, the smile in his blonde beard, slanted. "Yah, I like chief."

With an effort, Eomer had tried to keep his emotions detached, his feelings unaffected, but now in the half light of the hall, the sight of her figure with high, firm breasts and round, full hips and the scent of her body, rose water and furniture polish and woman, the time he had spent in the dark of her room, sharing in the pleasure of her body came rushing back, wringing at his insides.

He didn't know why he did it, maybe to offer her comfort, maybe reassurance, maybe because he was selfish and just wanted what he hadn't had in so long-a woman's touch. Almost of its own will, his hand skimmed up the length of her neck, the fine hairs there like down under his fingertips. Her skin was clammy to the touch, chilled by the cool dampness of the hallway, the linen at the waist of her maid's uniform, crisp and starched under his other hand, guiding her closer. He was so hot and afraid she might burn if he touched her. His mouth touched her lips, not with urgency or chaos, but tenderly, reverently, in respect and thankfulness. She opened to him, the tip of his tongue touching hers, soft and wet, tasting of roasted meat and bitter ale, one lasting remembrance of the intimacy they once shared.

"She the one, yes?" Alima asked, slicing her eyes to the door, behind which Loti was waiting, likely, not patiently. "The one you think of, the one you call out to when inside me?"

Eomer blinked, startled, and took a quick glance towards the door, but didn't say anything. From the way Alima was looking at him, he knew words were not necessary.

"Mmm," she said in that voice like hot coals as she stroked the hollow of his throat with the backs of her fingers, "You, pretty girl, there is love. But not right kind of love." She shook her head like this made her sad. "You lusting for pretty girl. Pretty girl not need cock. Cock everywhere. She want cock, she find. Pretty girl need this from you first." The palm of her hand lay flat on his chest, covering his thudding heart. "Take her to bed before giving her this…ruin everything."

She stepped back from his embrace, leaving him hollow bellied with abandonment, and gazed up at him with thoughtfully narrowed eyes. "Now, you called great man, someday you be greater. They call you something more."

As she hurried down the hall in a sway of starched linen, disappearing out of sight, Eomer wondered if Alima was one of those women who could see into a man's soul.

Having done what he could for her, he turned his attention back to the job at hand, slipping unnoticed into the room, the wood of the door comfortingly solid behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement along with a faint rustle and suddenly Loti emerged out of the shadows like a silk draped apparition, nearly scaring him out of his boots.

"Ghaw, woman!" he cursed, his body still gushing adrenaline to fingers and toes, fist sized heart inconveniently lodged in his throat. She was standing rather too close, making him feel like squirming.

Inclining the pert little nose, she sniffed, not the derisive, harrumphing sort of sniff, but literally sniffing. Like a bloodhound, he thought cynically, searching determinedly for the other woman's scent.

"Are you finished?" he asked rudely and got an unconvinced squiggled eye in response.

"Hmm…" she said and whirled on her heel.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light and he was no longer being intimidated by his five foot two inch secretary—with looks like that, she'd rival the head matron at the House of Healing for intransigence—Eomer was astonished to see where they had ended up. Even in the subdued glow of a few candles and a small, soot rimmed oil lamp, its flame long and slim under the tall glass globe, he could tell it was an elegant space, a masculine space, heavily decorated in wood, and designed to impress. Book shelves neatly crammed with hundreds of leather bound tomes lined the walls with darkly paneled cabinets underneath and although, not large rooms, three sets of long double casement windows were set into the far wall, candle flame distorted in the black, unglazed panes. There were two big glossy leather couches in the center of the room done in that obnoxious button tufted style. And, in front of the tall windows was an ornately carved, darkly stained desk.

"What room is this?" he asked, stepping in further. Straining his eyes, Eomer searched the shadowy corners for more details as to their location; a crystal decanter and glasses set on a silver try there, a bowl of fragrant exotic fruits here, a thick wedge of crown molding where bookcases intersected with the plastered ceiling. He took a breath of the room's humid, musty air, the smells of animal oil that burned in the lamp, old, molding books and expensive leather pervading his senses.

Loti sat perched on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs, bathed gold and amber in the lamp's steady flame. "Congratulations," she announced, "You just found us Izz al Din's office."

XXX

"Quick," he ordered, turning the key in the lock, "Let's start looking before one of the guards sees the light in the window and sends someone up to check."

Snatching up a candle in its silver holder, Loti hopped off the desk, eagerly poking the flame into a darkened corner of the room. "Look for something unusual," she advised, curiously tipping several thick books out of the case with an index finger, "Something that doesn't belong… something that looks out of place."

Instead, like a bear to a honey jug, Eomer strode towards the desk.

"You're not going to find anything over there!" she hissed.

He flipped a hand at her in a curt bugger off sort of fashion and started rifling desk drawers, shimmying papers and other writing paraphernalia.

Loti heaved a sigh. He was an idiot. Izz al Din was too shrewd, had too much to lose to be leaving important documents in his just lying about, to be read by anyone's interested eye. But, Eomer was like a terrier, once he got an idea in his head, he'd shake at it and shake at it until eventually sense over came inbred stubbornness.

"So…" she began, casually, affecting disinterest, cringing at the mayhem taking place in the background, "Who is she?"

The clattering stopped for an instant. "Nobody," came the reply and the desk rummaging resumed.

"She didn't look like nobody to me."

No answer. A drawer opened.

Loti focused on the books, looking for a shape or a title or a placement of something that didn't seem quite right. The delicate orange-red flame danced agitatedly with every movement, it's heart so hot it gave off no color. "Did you go to bed with her?" she wondered nosily, squinting at the gold embossed titles in the dim light.

_The Histories of the Wars of Middle earth: Second Age Vol I,_ she read. Continuing across the shelf were some of the most coma inducing literary creations ever written. _The Collected and Annotated Works of Ecthelion I, Our New West: The Memoirs of a Survivor of the Destruction of Nuemenor, The Rohirric Oppression of Dunland: An Essay, An Encyclopedia of the Plants of the Shire and Surrounding Courtryside, A Critique of the Contemporary Law of Gondor, Morgoth: The Early Years, The Art and Architecture of Middle earth: The Elves of Rivendell, The Agriculture of Harad and its Effect on Civilization, Manuscripts in the Library of Minas Tirith: A Catalogue._

_Zzzzz,_ she thought, what a snoozer. And, guaranteed to make any insomniac nod off halfway down the page, this monotonous little ditty- _The Sindarin Alphabet: with an explanation of its principles, and a variety of extracts, illustrating its adaptation to the sounds of the common tongue... to which is added, a Sindarin system of punctuation_. Her eyelids were already beginning to sag. Why would anyone voluntarily read any of these? Men should start penning literature that was entertaining, more accessible and more relatable to the masses, like _Hobbits and Dwarves: What's the difference and why you should care_, or _Earendil: The elf, the myth, the legend_.

The drawer slid closed. "None of your business," he said too quickly.

Curiosity was a valuable asset in a spy. The flip side was, occasionally, you learned something you didn't want to know.

"Ah." So he had. No surprise really, but he was awfully defensive about it. Why was this girl different from any other harlot? She dipped her hand into a bowl of citrus scented potpourri, desiccated slices of lemons and dried orange peel chunks trickling through her fingers, wafting the smell. "Are you in love with her?"

"Would you be jealous if I said yes?"

"Certainly not! Why would I care?" It must be the candle flame making her face feel so hot. She set it down and pulled open a pair of cabinet doors under the book shelves, discovering a tarnished silver pitcher and bowl and several disused figurines; nothing of consequence. "Well…are you?" Loti demanded.

"Am I what?"

"In love with that tramp?"

Eomer leaned over the desk, hands resting palm down on the inlaid leather blotter, marshalling his thoughts and probably his temper, too. Whenever she meddled in his affairs, he became aggravated, even more so when she took too much interest in his love life. Looping a fallen wing of hair over his ear, he sliced a dirty blue look in her direction. The diffuse lamplight made his features appear chiseled out of stone, deepening the hollows of cheekbones, and eyes, and the slanted grooves of disapproval in his brow. "No. I am not," Eomer replied definitively. He tossed his head and returned to his rootling, opening and closing the same drawer again. Loti knew it was the same drawer by the sound it made. Under his breath, he added, "She's just a friend."

"Do you sleep with all your female friends?"

This time the drawer slammed shut with a bang. "Yes, I do! Which is exactly why you and I are not friends!"

"Men and women can't be friends?" she asked, imitating his frown. "Why ever not?"

Having gotten under his skin, Eomer scratched vigorously at the bats in his belfry, making the waves tangle on top of his head. "Because," he explained, teeth clenched, "Men are men and women are women."

"Oh! Is that it? Well, I thank you for that very insightful answer! Most helpful, I assure you!" she returned, every word laced with sarcasm.

He snapped back right away. "What I mean is Eothain is my friend, too, but when we're together I'm not thinking about dragging him off to the dove cot so I can stick my cock in his mouth. When a man's friends with a woman, no matter how long they've known each other, he's always thinking about what it might be like to bed her. I've been friends with Eothain's sister as long as I've been friends with him and I've still fucked her a dozen times or more. But that's when the trouble starts because once you've had her, you aren't friends anymore. It complicates everything because she's good enough to fuck but not good enough to marry."

"What a romantic you are, E. In that case, I'm glad we're not friends."

"Good. Because if we were, you'd walk bowl legged for a week after." The retort was sharp, and, she thought, a warning. Unexpectedly as always, his attitude changed, turning wistful. He wagged his head and made that snorting laugh that usually went along with that wry looking sideways grin. "She said we were in love."

"Ha!" the word erupted from her mouth. She'd gone back to the careful examination of the books shelves but whipped around and marched straight over to the desk. "I could not ever love you. You're too stubborn. You have a head like stone."

He inclined one of his eyebrows and smiled in the manner of a delinquent boy seeing his first naked woman. "And a cock to match too, eh?"

"What are you doing back there?" she chastened, ignoring the question. Eomer was kneeling behind the desk and engaging in a bizarre tug of war with the large drawer, shoving it in and pulling it out again and again. "I told you, you're not going to find anything there. He'd never keep what we're looking for just lying out for anybody to see."

Angling his head, he tried to see into the back of the drawer, but his shadow got in the way, so he shut it. "You're wrong. He's arrogant, greedy. Power hungry. He'd want to keep all that close to him." His arm groped along the desk's inside panel, emitting a fabric like _schwooshing_ as his sleeve rubbed against the polished wood. "Something's wrong with this drawer. It's not as long as the other drawers. Huh…What's this?" he said and stuffed his head underneath, popping up a second later, grunting but grinning. "It's a lock!"

"A lock? You mean there's a hidden panel under there?"

"Mmmhmm." The wide center desk drawer opened with a squeak and Eomer combed haphazardly through the miscellanea inside, coming out with a small skeleton key. Both the lock and the secret panel opened easily and almost immediately he came out with a leather folder stuffed with papers, slapping it on the desk top with a _thwap. _Self importantly, he gloated, one eye blinking in a quick 'I told you so' wink. Loti dashed to the other side of the desk and together, they began combing through the sheaves of foolscap.

After only a few pages, the formerly triumphant gleam in Eomer's eyes glazed over. All the pages and pages of correspondence and monotonously boring coded messages were—exclusively for Eomer's benefit, helpfully written in a language he didn't understand. Still, they went doggedly on, scanning letters and bills and ledgers, setting aside sheets that might be of some consequence, his anxious, over eager presence standing just over her shoulder.

"What are you looking for?" he asked, a floating blonde head popping into her peripheral vision and breaking her concentration. His intrusions were a byproduct of the folder's contents being completely written in Haradrim.

"Clues. These are coded messages. Keep quiet so I can think!" Clearly, he had no idea how disruptive he was being.

A tension filled quarter hour passed while Loti selected fifteen good possibilities, brushing aside the remaining letters in the folder. Although not unimportant by any means, with their limited time and the strong possibility of being caught in the act, these messages focused the most closely on their current goal; finding where in Gondor the black powder was being manufactured and, secondarily, who was supplying Izz al Din's arsenal with broadswords and other arms.

Of the fifteen possible, another more careful examination whittled the choices down to five, now laid flat before them on the desk.

"Why these?" Eomer asked, tapping a finger on the shiny, polished desk top.

"They're all coded," Loti said. She fanned her hands in graceful presentation over the five remaining sheets. "We have at least three different writers here. See? These two," with large rounded letters written with an dull quill, the individual letters thick and splotchy, "these two," written in a fine scrawling slant, "and this one," so jagged and uneven it looked as if it had been written on the side of a rolling barrel. "Now, these two with the rounded hand, they're the oldest. See how the ink is faded and brown and the paper has yellowed? And this one, it's the newest. The ink is still black. The paper is still crisp…even the wax seal is still attached." Picking it up, the top folded over on itself, exposing the unidentified seal. "But these two, the paper is very good, and so is the penmanship. Whoever wrote this is well educated. These other two," Loti indicated the letters with the neat, rounded hand writing, "the paper isn't quite as fine, but not as bad as that other one over there. Whoever wrote these is educated, but not nearly as wealthy as the first."

Eomer nodded, absorbed, a deep line of concentration between the blonde brows. "What else?"

"Well," she picked up the sheet that looked like it had been written while the author was on the back of a galloping horse, "Whoever wrote this is not a native speaker of Haradrim. The syntax is all wrong, and some of the words are misspelled, or spelled phonetically. The writers of the others aren't native speakers either-they were taught in a strictly formal way; there's no informality to it at all, no colloquialisms. Not so surprising, though, since they're educated." Loti was musing now, more to herself than to Eomer. "It's ridged and not in a dialect of the clans of Harad. This is a dialect of South Gondor. I'm pretty certain all three of these writers are from Gondor." Her finger tapped a page, the smoothly buffed nail clicking on the wood.

"Mmmhmm," he said and crossed his arms. "What are they talking about?"

"This one is about hunting. These two are about sailing, and these other two are about the weather, although, somehow, they seem to be referencing each other. Overlapping. Maybe the writers know each other? No, they definitely know each other because why else-"

Eomer laid a hand on her arm, squeezing, his heartbeat thundering in the tips of her fingers. Their heads swung in unison in the direction of the door. Coming down the hall was the heavy tread of booted feet on the carpet and then a deep Haradrim voice calling out to a companion.

"I'll be right behind you. I have to check this room. Ubi says he saw a light on in here."

"Ah, shit," Eomer muttered, rather understating the situation.

The beating of her heart boomed, echoing in the caves of her ears as the doorknob started to jiggle, rattling back and forth with a nerve rippling clacket-ing noise. Springing into action, Eomer swept up the papers, cramming them back into the folder and stuffing the folder willy nilly inside a desk drawer. Meanwhile Loti had shot for the windows, cranking open the heavy framed casement as far as it would go, ushering in a gust of sea scented air. The windows were the only means of escape from the room.

Eomer came to stand behind her, their heads bowed together, peering out over the window sill. There was nothing, not a ledge to crawl out on or another window well nearby, nowhere to go except straight down, into the black that swallowed up the lawns below.

Loti's throat convulsed in a swallow; it hadn't seemed that high standing on the ground and looking up. "I think we could make it," she said, not precisely confident about this.

"Don't be silly. It's thirty feet straight down with nothing down there to stop your fall. You'd break your neck and both your legs."

"Well, what then?" She sounded like a hissing tea kettle. "I don't see you coming up with any bright ideas!"

"Shut up, woman! I'm thinking!"

His intention wasn't to be mean, neither was hers, but they both had a tendency towards snippiness when their nerves were frazzled. And they were certainly frazzled now!

There was a tinkling of keys on a ring outside the door.

He furrowed both hands through his hair, cursing and mumbling some of those unidentifiable Rohirric noises of frustration, eyes frantically searching the room as if looking for a sign that said 'Secret passage here. Pull handle.'

She took a deep breath, squaring her small shoulders in resignation So, this was it then. They were trapped like mice cornered by the resident housecat.

A spark of cold calculation flashed in the icy blue eyes; an idea, she supposed hopefully, a miniscule pea rattling around in that empty, cavernous head of his.

Eomer took her by the hand, dragging Loti away from the window with a lurch and into the center of the room.

Another key rattled in the lock, stripping her nerves raw. The man muttered something to himself and the key ring jingled as he selected yet one more key.

Whirling her around to face him, Eomer gave her an earnestly serious and mildly apologetic look, saying quite firmly, "I'm sorry." From the way he was gazing at her, she thought he might do something entirely out of character, like being dashing or romantic, or chivalrous, behaving as a hero might towards the heroine in some sort of steamy novel. Instead, he did something much more his style...

He yanked, pulling down the front of her gown, baring Loti to the waist. Stunned, Loti gaped at herself standing half naked and half an arm's length away from Eomer, unturned breasts rising in the warm glow of candle light. Then her head was forced back and his tongue was inside her open mouth! Eru's balls, he had a tongue like a lizard! And just like that, Loti found herself flat on her back, lying on one of the tufted couches, spraddle legged as an upside down june bug, squashed under three hundred pounds of Horse Lord.

She didn't argue. It wasn't the genius of the plan she minded so much, it was the style of execution that would get him a swat in the do-dahs later.

One arm was looped under her shoulder, cradling the back of her neck, forcing her mouth to stay pressed against his, open for plunder and for the stifling of any exclamations in the case she was inclined to do so, which she wasn't. His other hand was at her breast, kneading, cautiously covering the wobbly flesh with his palm. She raised her head, pressing her lips hard against his, thrusting her tongue past his and forcing her way into his mouth. This was as much a battle of wills as it was a deception.

There was something painfully sharp digging into her belly, probably his dirk. Loti wiggled, trying to dislodge it and Eomer let out a very convincing groan, shifting his weight. In the earlier kafuffle, the skirt of the gown had gotten hiked up around her thighs. Now, it had slithered all the way down to her hips, leaving her all but naked. A sort of hard mounded shape that was not his dagger pressed into the crux of her thigh. She moved her hips, teasing. He sighed again, pleased.

His interest in her mouth began to wane and he moved lower, on to more interesting territory, across the arched curve of her neck, along the delicately thin skin of her collarbone. Although her skin held the healthy glow of light bronze there were still places on her body where the intricate blue lace work of veins could be seen, hidden just under the surface. His lips touched her chest, his breath warm, his tongue moist in the shallow hollow of her breasts. He cupped the small, smooth round and bent his head to her nipple, setting his teeth on the tip, moistening it with little flicks of his tongue, the ends of his long hair lightly tickling her chest and belly.

What had started out innocent and gentle was quickly developing into something more. He grunted softly, the sound of it across his lips making her nipple tingle, and repositioned himself, his hips urgent against hers, once again walking that line between danger and passion.

Loti quickly forgot all about the man outside the door, the warlord in the drawing room, and the papers in the desk, lost in the mingled scents of their bodies, sweet flowers and rich spice. His hips moved again, brushing her in a place so sensitive it sent tendrils of flame flickering from her center, sizzling in finger tips and toes, her head pounding in time to her heart. Instinctively, she arched against him, her breasts heavy in his hands, the nipples so hard they ached with the need to be suckled. Experienced as he was, Eomer knew what she needed, turning rough, biting, the small brown peak disappearing between his lips, beautiful bronzed domes sucked savagely into his mouth. Her hands threaded through the mass of blonde waves, the strands very fine and soft for a man, like filaments of silk. Cupping the back of his head, she forced him down, urging him to take the nipple deeper where his warm, wet tongue swirled and flicked and teeth nibbled in tiny stretching bites. She lifted her hips to meet the movement of his, long agonizing strokes, the hard, confined length of his cock pressed firmly against her smooth, damp flesh in mockery of the act. Like the breath of wind across the mouth of a cave, she moaned. Eomer moaned, too, tortured by a need as great as her own.

So this was desire. This was not the meeting of two bodies in the dark; two people joining for the sake of act. She was not motionless, flat on her back, penetrated, an object of lust. They were in motion, together as one being, she as powerful as he. This was the need to possess him, whole and fully, pull him into her own body with all the strength she had and the knowledge that he was willing to come. It was a feeling that thundered and ached deep in her belly and at the surface, throbbing, swollen and hot, at the peak in the cleft between her thighs. She was wet, and Eomer knew it, rolling his hips in a slow, suggestive slide that began low and ended high, teasing that most sensitive of places, reminiscent of deepest penetration, the front of his britches damp with her slickness.

When the door finally did open and a bar of faint light cut across the couch where they lay, Loti barely noticed, her vision gone blurry as an out of focus kaleidoscope, fragmented with images of Eomer's eyes, wide and black with arousal and his lips at her breast, hair like spun gold framing his face.

"Hey, you!" the guard said in Haradrim, but in a tone of voice clear enough for any non speaker to understand, "What are you do-?" He stopped just inside the door, a leer spreading from ear to ear, dark brown eyes a-goggle like an overstuffed gargoyle.

Reluctantly, Eomer's mouth came away from her nipple with one of those wet sucking noises, leaving the pebbled dark tip moist with the wetness of his mouth. He rolled to the side, slowly raising himself up on one hand and cocked his head towards the other man, slightly dazed, eyes glossy and drunk with lust, making no attempt what so ever to disguise what he and Loti were doing.

Shaken abruptly back into reality, Loti lay beneath Eomer, feigning nonchalance, exposed to the other man's appreciative ogling, making no move to cover herself. If ever there were a time for modesty, this was not it! Eyes fixed on the two of them, the intruder plucked unselfconsciously at the front of his britches, easing the tight fit.

The guard, who was not atypically Haradrim in appearance, being tallish in height and a bit pudgy—the biggest men in Harad were always soldiers—but still dark haired and olive skinned, grinned, beetling his brows, drinking in his fill of Loti's tousled hair, bare breasts, lifted skirt and shapely splayed legs, Eomer's narrow hips cradled by her thighs.

Eomer grinned back, deliriously crease-eyed and nodded, giving him the semblance of a wink. The guard nodded too, still smiling in the way of a pervertedly satisfied male and smacked one fist into the palm of his other hand. Obviously, this was the universal male gesture for 'Give her a good one for me, mate!' Only one of her eyebrows crinkled at this, not sure if she should be flattered or offended.

Their interested voyeur was neither embarrassed nor disposed to leave. She _was_ embarrassed, not to mention uncomfortable what with her back well adhered to the shiny leather of the couch. The big manly piece of furniture creaked, squeaked or groaned every time one of them moved. If Eomer was the one who got them into this mess and if this degenerate wasn't going to leave and let them get back to their snooping, then it was Loti who going to have to do something about it. Sick of all the lewd eyebrow waggling and implied hand gesticulations, Loti pressed her hips to Eomer's enticingly. He gave a little groan of agreement, coming without resistance as she pulled him back to her, resuming his explorations of the terrain that was her. Under her hands, the long, lean muscles of his back and arms were strung taut with anxious control; whether from the stress of the situation or the restraint of his own desire, it was hard to tell. .

His lips were ministering to the curve of her neck when he found an overly ticklish spot. She gasped, over doing it a little perhaps, and clutched his shoulders, arching ecstatically against Eomer's body, watching the guard watch her. The dramatics had the desired effect. He put a hand to his crotch, adjusting his bits and pieces. Eomer added an unsolicited groan just for good measure and covered one breast with his palm, squeezing gently.

Loti exclaimed, "Ah-ha!" again, and ran her tongue over her lips, wetting them in the most ludicrously seductive way possible. Why a little bit of lip licking made men randy as goats, she would never understand, but one didn't stop to over analyze in a situation like this. Over Eomer's shoulder, she spoke a few words of Haradrim to the man, giving him the dreamy bedroom eyes look and throwing in a moan here and there when Eomer moved his hips. The guard looked like a child who'd just been given a pound of candy for his supper and backed out the door, pulling it shut behind him. Not before taking one more quick glance, though.

The spill of light from the doorway shrank and disappeared, thrusting Eomer and Loti back in to the relative darkness of the office. A sharp metallic click of the lock and Loti breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

"Eomer," she whispered impatiently, patting his hunched, broad back, "Come on, get up." The mood that had over loaded her inhibitions moments ago had evaporated. No one could possibly find the prospect of love play intriguing after that little encounter. No one, that was, except Eomer. Now that they were no longer in any immediate danger, his body had gone to the sort of inert, warm weight of a man who had all the time in the world to pleasure his lover. He pressed himself against her, wiggling, his urgency startling. "Eomer!" she scolded, "Get your paws off me! We don't have time for this!"

With little feminine grunts, she leveraged him up, placing the flats of her hands against his chest. The couch made noises of protest, stretching and groaning like the cattle that had previously occupied the leather as she struggled out from under him, leaving Eomer propped on his elbows, lackwitted and disoriented, lips puckered for a kiss.

Her back was stinging something awful! Probably because most of her skin had been left behind on the cushion as a result of her extrications.

Smoothing down her skirts and hiking up the top, she tottered hurriedly towards the desk, wrinkled, rumpled and with one foot only halfway in her shoe.

"Come on, get up! We don't have a lot of time!" she ordered, tossing the jumbled file on to the desk.

He sat up, the couch leather creaking with the sound of hogs being slaughtered, running two big hands through his disheveled locks. By the light of the lamp, Loti could see his color was high and the silvered blue of his eyes was a tiny sliver circling the black. "What did you say to get him to go?"

She cut her eyes in his direction, seeing him through feathery lashes. "You don't want to know."

"Don't I?" he grumbled bitterly.

Laying a letter flat on the desk she began to peruse it again, leaning over it with both hands, arms outstretched.

"We've got twenty minutes."

Scowling, he turned to her, draping an arm over the back of the couch. "Before…?"

"Before he comes back," she said, detached, minding her reading. Then, after a moment's pause, she looked at him sideway, distorting her face in an unflattering way, "and brings a friend. Sorry…" She cringed.

"Ghaw, woman…" was all he said to this.

On his feet now, Eomer was busy setting himself to rights. He cupped a hand between his legs, hitching up his more sensitive appendages. "You're a real cock tease, you know that?"

"Mmhmm," she answered, not really paying attention.

Her erstwhile amorous lover came leisurely to stand at the head of the desk, control over his more baser instincts now reasserted, watching her read.

"If these messages are coded, how do you know what they're discussing?" he wanted to know.

"Well, I don't, really," she replied. Seeing this answer was unsatisfactory, and he was about to give her one of his more infuriated glares, Loti explained further. "I've seen these kinds of coded messages before, you know. If I can see lots of other correspondence, I could see patterns and figure out from there what the writer is referring to. But there's not so many here, and lots of letters from different writers. These," she gestured at the missives, "they really aren't all that hard to interpret, knowing what we already know. In these letters, you're mentioned three times. Once as the lion in the grass, that one's easy to figure out." Her eyes settled on his tangled blonde mane. "And again here, as the blacksmith's hammer. You're friend, Aragron is the blacksmith, I assume, and you're the tool he wields to do the job. It's not an insult, it's just the opposite. They're worried about you interfering in their plans. It's the hammer that does the damage. And then they go on to talk about other things, what seems like normal, everyday activities. See, in this one, he says if the weather holds fine, he's going to go sailing along the coast of Gondor from Pelegrir to the Gray Havens. He's heard the boar hunting this time of year is excellent in Lond Daer."

"Boar hunting?"

"Not boar hunting. Kidnapping." His head snapped up, a look of hope in his eyes. Loti knew what he was thinking and shook her head. "No, E. This letter is months old. Whoever wrote this planned on sailing up and down the coast kidnapping people and then sailing south to sell their, ah…cargo." It was hard for Eomer to accept that there was nothing he could do, even harder knowing that those who had been taken were likely gone forever from those they had loved. "I think we can be pretty certain our smuggler is from Gondor, too, probably based in the port at Pelegrir. Selling slaves must be how they're funding this rising of the clans business."

"What about the black powder. Does it say anything about that?" Eomer was restless, beginning to fidget, wanting to be gone.

Loti let out a kind of sigh, mingled frustration and dejection. "It's being made somewhere close to the water, that's a pretty good bet. Somewhere they could easily load the cargo without drawing too much attention. Pelegrir is a port city, no one would think twice about casks being loaded into a trading ship. Or maybe somewhere down river? If you want to know where exactly, I need more time to look at these in order to figure out the pattern of the code."

"Fine," he said decisively, "We'll take them with us."

She was hastily gathering the letters into a pile when an icy hand clenched around her stomach, squeezing and twisting, its frozen fingers tickling her spine. Over the papers on the desk, blue eyes met blue eyes for the briefest of instants in one of those voiceless exchanges of communication. Yes, Eomer had heard it too; a pair of footsteps, the cadence distinctively male, hurrying down the hall at the quick step.

A quick flick of blonde brow upwards. Was it beetle brows and friend coming back early?

Not waiting for an answer, he spun to face the threat, hand reaching for his sword. In doing so, the gilded hilt whacked against the blazing lamp, placed, imprudently Loti must admit, near the edge of the desk. Like a dream gone horribly wrong, she watched, as if in slow motion, the lamp went over, paper thin globe shattering on impact. Tiny shards of glass were sent skittering across the desk top in all directions. Oil trickled out of the lamp's cracked glass base, oozing in a clear, viscous streamlet along the polished wood surface. There was a soft _thwump_ like someone sitting down on an overstuffed piece of furniture as the barely burning wick touched the oil and suddenly half the desk was alight, the dark room exploding a flash of orange flames.

Flabbergasted beyond the point of coherent sentences, Loti said "Oo! Ah…hmm…" and backed away a couple of steps.

Eomer was only a little more eloquent. "Fuck!" She'd have to hand it to him; for a vulgar barbarian, he certainly had a way of summing up the whole mess!

The fire crackled and ate into their valuable cache of letters, the scorched ends turning black and curling up, little feathery bits of singed paper floating down around them like dirty flakes of falling snow.

"Quick! Give me something to put it out with!" he demanded.

Scanning the room, Loti spied a nearby decanter and reached for it.

"Not that! It's liquor! That! Give me that, over there!" He pointed to a cut glass vase arrayed with flowers. "Toss it!"

Soft handed, Eomer caught it one handed in mid air, dousing the fire in a cascade of stale plant water and hot house lilies.

In the aftermath, smoke hung like fog in the room and the smell of wet, scorched wood was thick in the air. There were several persistent trickles of water dribbling onto the carpet, candlelight twinkled red and amber and gold in the broken slivers of glass, flowers scattered across the desk and, underneath, the charred remains of their only proof of Izz al Din's guilt. The arms smuggling, the location of the black powder production, the identities of the men involved, the people…

Oh Valar, the people! Abducted, terrified, transported. Torn away from freedom, separated from those they loved, or worse, thought dead. Forced into slavery, compelled by violent means into lives they had neither been born to nor chosen. It was impossible to properly imagine what it was like to be ripped from the world of safety and comfort you'd known for all your years, pride, humanity, dreams, stripped away by those who cared no more for your life than they did for stray dogs in the streets. No one could know the anguish, the torture those poor souls suffered. Loti could, though.

As though a weight he could no longer bear to carry, Eomer, staring blankly at the destruction before him, let the vase slip from his fingers, thudding and bouncing as it hit the carpet. Loti made a gurgling sound, not quite a sob, far back in her throat, crying out in distress as she lunged for the desk, knowing full well it was what Eomer wanted to do, but could not.

He was faster than she was, and he pulled her back by the waist; his soldier's training and instincts the clarity in a moment of extreme stress. She sagged against him, her legs gone weak as water.

"Let's go," he ordered brusquely. Time had run out and so had their luck. Hastily, he whisked her into the hall by the arm, pinching out candles as he went and, with a flick of the wrist, he locked the door, depositing the key into a vase of flowers for the maid to retrieve later.

They hustled hand in hand through the bleak, empty halls, for each, right then, the touch of the other as necessary for survival as dagger or knife.


	18. Chapter 18 Midnight in the Garden of Evi

A/N: So. This is another monster chapter and I apologize and thank you for reading in advance. If you'll remember, I said I was in the hospital. After that I suffered what was actually a real attack of the dreaded writer's block, not just a case of stalled writing. So for those of you who were being to think I had given up on this story... Nope! I haven't! :-) Thanks to every one who reviewed and sent me notes wondering if I was ever going to post again. I'm proud and deeply humbled to think that i have entertained you to some extent, which is, after all, what I'm trying to do. It encourages me and on those days when writing is tough, makes me think that I'm just not wasting my time. For those of you who have read but not yet reviewed, I would love to hear from you, even if it's just a quick word. Also, if you haven't been to Faerie yet, check it out: .

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It smelled like rain.

Much more so now than it had earlier, earthy and crisp with that sharp tinged hint of lightning far off in the distance. Gravel crunched under foot as they hurried briskly down the garden path towards the stable yard. Loti stumbled for the dozenth time, rolling an ankle, the smooth soled shoes slipping on the crushed stone that paved the lane. Reeling ungracefully, she pitched sideways with an exclamation, visions of diving face first into an herbaceous border dancing through her head. Eomer's big hand, cupped around her elbow, saved her from grass stained ignominy, somehow standing her upright and, yet, still propelling her onward without even so much as a broken step.

"It's alright. Just keep moving." He spoke in a calm, if flat, voice.

A breeze stirred Eomer's loose hair, lifting it off his neck and shoulders. Dewy and redolent of salt, it rattled through the trees, the susurrus of thousands of shivering leaves like waves upon a shore and, although the heat of the day still lingered in the air, the night had grown eerie, charged with anticipation and something more ominous, foreboding, like the tension that runs through a crowd at an execution just before the ax falls.

She was practically running next to him as he strode, long legged and fluid as a flamingo, lifting her feet in little half skipping steps, keeping her skirt out of the way with her free hand. Heeled slippers, although fashionably elegant, were not designed for running on rocks or escaping from warlords with predilections towards violence.

Shivering, all the fine hairs on her body stood in the wind, prickling like the needles of a cactus. The thought of executions chilled her to the bone, in spite of the late summer's warmth and Eomer's proximity, radiating heat like a hearth fire. As normal, he hadn't said much, not wanting to worry her, but she could smell his nervous sweat, bitter in the sweet night air.

"Are you cold?" he asked. It was a legitimate question. The night's weather held that in between quality that precursored thunderstorms; neither warm nor cool, dry nor wet, calm nor active.

"No," she replied, anxiety twining her insides like snakes. Not looking at her, he nodded absently, gripping her arm tighter in reassurance. She'd probably have bruises in the morning. She didn't really care.

A bat fluttered by, its leathery wings blinking in the light from a distant lantern near the house, silent as a shadow.

As they rounded a corner like two racing horses making the turn for home, Eomer's hand steered her into another part of the garden, winding their way farther and farther from the house. The path was unlit and dark as an orc's armpit, made even darker by the moonless, cloud filled sky and the ghostlike shapes of marble statuary and towering black shrubbery, some of which were sculpted into very interesting shapes—birds, horses, oliphants, cones, spheres, pigs, even a toadstool!

Unlit also meant deserted. Of course this path would be abandoned! Guests wouldn't collect their own transportation. Those not spending the night at the estate would depart via the grand entrance, their mounts and carriages brought around by grooms and stable hands.

Not completely deserted, as it turned out…

At first, Loti thought it was one of the statues talking and blinked disbelievingly at a naked, lute playing hobbit, kicking up its heels, small little hobbit parts dangling. Eomer slowed, then stopped abruptly in the middle of the path, hand at his dirk. He reminded her of a horse, head up, ears pricked forward, nostril flaring, scenting an instant before she did the sweet, woodsy odor of expensive Umbari cigars.

It was not the statuary talking.

"Leaving so soon," said a male voice from the stygian shadows.

Her blood ran cold, coagulating into ice, the sweat and heat from Eomer's hand burning her skin as she recognized the owner of that voice.

From a gap in the decorative bushes, they stepped like demons onto the path, shadows in the shape of men, their faces as black as the night. By the outlines of their dress, they were soldiers, and all armed, curved scimitars hanging from their belts, sleek and deadly. Behind Eomer and Loti there was a rustle, as of bushes being parted, and the tread of boots, loud on the crushed stone. Loti saw Eomer's eyes, narrowed and alert, focusing, grabbing sidelong glimpses at the newly arrived soldiers, assessing, appraising, calculating size and agility, reach and strength—Loti could see it in the way his gaze flicked over each man—and finally, with half sneering lips and a shift of his weight, accepting. No fighting their way out of this; the path was blocked in both directions, they were surrounded. He was reckless, Eomer, but not stupid.

A much smaller man, standing point, drew on his cigar, the ring around the end faintly crackling and flaming red, casting the face of Izz al Din in the same bloody glow.

Bile rose up into the back of Loti's throat, bitter and acrid tasting. Had the man found out about his office already? No! He couldn't possibly. There wasn't enough time. She and Eomer had only just come from there moments ago. Had al Din had been lying in wait, buying his time until he could get them alone? How positively cowardly of him.

If that were the case, then this was a break down—no, that wasn't right… A shakedown, that's what it was called; a tactic commonly employed by the Rohirrim, and a personal favorite of Eomer's, used as a means of intimidation and extraction of information from those who were less than cooperative.

Eomer recognized it too and urged her closer to his side. His chest expanded as he took a deep breath, pulling himself up to his full height in counter intimidation—even now he was still a few inches taller than the tallest shadowy soldier—his mouth twisted in an ironical moue.

Clouds, in the way of clouds, scuttled and shifted, parting enough to illuminate this less than idyllic garden scene in a faint grayish light. Loti groaned and wished the clouds would go back together. The three spoiled al Din boys had come with their father.

"If you'll excuse us, we have to be going," Eomer explained, stiffly.

Al Din puffed on his cigar, the tip red hot under the ash. "Running off without thanking your host or saying goodbye. It's rather rude, isn't it, even for a horse swiving savage like yourself. I would have expected better of you, my lord, considering…" the last trailed off. A halo of smoke, white in the moonlight, swirled around his head.

"It's not 'my lord'." He was purposefully being maligned, and Eomer knew it.

"What?"

"You don't address a king as 'my lord'. It's 'your Majesty' or 'Sir'," he explained, "I would have expected better of you, considering…" The insult was subtle. _Ouch,_ Loti thought. "Then again," Eomer went on, the corner of his mouth curved in what was neither a smile nor a sneer, "I suppose you don't see much of kings or real nobility here." _Double ouch!_ That was a slight if she'd ever heard one. Nothing like pointing out to al Din, who'd already swallowed a large chunk of humble pie in their initial meeting, that he was neither a 'your Majesty' nor of noble birth, while Eomer, although barbaric in the extreme, was, indeed, both.

The chieftain's lips disappeared around the barrel of the cigar. He puffed thoughtfully, once, recomposing himself and lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "Still…it seems rather suspicious, you running out of here in the dark like a pair of cockroaches when you were so eager to get in earlier this evening, doesn't it?" Standing behind their father, the slimy al Din boys chuckled softly.

"I already told you, we have to be going," snapped Eomer, eyeing the boys with the same sort of distain he might give to a glob of manure on his polished black boots and gestured with his chin towards the storm filled sky. "I don't want to be caught in a storm with the horses."

"Ah, I see…Well, I'm nothing if not hospitable. You could, of course, spend the night."

"No. We must be getting back."

"That was not a request!" al Din bit back immediately, temporarily losing his hard won composure. He stuffed the cigar back in his mouth as though to stop himself from saying more, chewed on the end briefly and removed it, the look in his moon lit black eyes more sinister than normal. "You could, of course, leave the girl here with me and go on yourself." He leaned forward to get a better look at something, squinted, then dipped a hand into the breast pocket of his tunic. Loti felt Eomer stiffen beside her automatically. Al Din noticed the stiffening of his posture as well and pressed his lips together, smirking, pulling not a weapon but gold rimmed spectacles from the interior pocket, settling them with a practiced ease on the bridge of his nose. "Ah," he said with marked delight, those muddy brown rat's eyes no longer thin slits, "she _is_ an elf. Hmm… partly at least. I hadn't noticed before now. Well, then," He removed the spectacles, returning them to the pocket. "I've rather taken a shine to her. I'd like to make her my companion. Let me buy her from you and you can be on your way. One travels much more quickly than two, anyway."

Outwardly calm, Loti could see all of Eomer's tension ripple in the muscles of his straight square jaw. "No. She's mine. Bought and paid for from the pleasure house," he lied. This was their agreed upon fall back story, and a plausible one at that.

"I didn't think your people kept slaves. It offends your sense of rightness, I was given to understand," al Din observed.

"She's no slave. She's _my_ companion."

From behind his father, the eldest al Din boy, Dar something or other, stuck his nose in were it didn't belong. If the brat wasn't careful, he'd wind up getting it cut off. "Don't worry about leaving her; she'll be properly taken care of."

"Properly taken care of? If by that I suppose you mean raped and beaten and then sold back into slavery?" Eomer's deep, husky voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, so cold and menacing it raised goosebumps across her skin. "I've seen what you do to women. I wouldn't put a dog into your care."

Arrogantly puckering his mouth, Dar al Din was very bad at concealing his feelings, Loti concluded. He lashed back with, "Maybe you should. You're not doing your duty to her as a man. From what I've seen, your bitch needs a heavy hand to her face and a fat cock in her mouth to shut her up. A wench is best kept flat on her back with her legs in the air. Even an animal like you should know that."

The fingers of Eomer's left hand tightened into a fist roughly the size of a mallet and both sides of his mouth curled up as though he were a rabid dog. "I could kill you with one hand."

Dar al Din kept smiling with that superior twist to his lips, sniffed derisively, glancing quickly at his assembled men. "I'd like to see you try."

"I never try anything, I just do it." One blonde eyebrow flicked upward. The challenge was there, implied silently. _Want to try me?_

Loti stood still as a statue, listening as the men argued over who was going to take her home, like she was some sort of disputed heifer at an auction, wishing Eomer would shut his blasted mouth! Couldn't he see they were looking for a weakness, something they could exploit, a way to manipulate and hurt him? They were like a pack of wolves stalking their prey, flushing it out, waiting to capitalize on the animal's one fatal mistake, beady black gazes fixed on throat and stomach, the soft parts, already tasting blood.

It took several more very colorful insults—did Rohirric men know any other kind?—for Loti to realize what Eomer was attempting to accomplish. He was buying them time, searching for a way out of Izz al Din's nicely sprung trap. This was a fruitless venture, though. Only a man as persistently bullheaded as Eomer would continue to fight as the steel jaws closed around him.

Getting stuck behind enemy lines was one of the inevitable hazards of being a spy. When it did happen there were only two options; skulk about in the shadowy fringes like a rat trying not to get caught, or meet the enemy head on and hope both she and Eomer didn't end up floating face down in the murky brown waters of the Haren.

Donning one of the many acting hats a spy must constantly be wearing and wetting dry lips, Loti commended her soul to Eru, the Valar, and any other supreme being that she might find favor with and raised her voice.

"How much?" she demanded over the volley of slanderous epithets and xenophobic curse.

Al Din simply raised a hand and the squabbling halted almost immediately, the corner of one manfully plucked dark brow quirking up, both pleased and amused. He'd heard her alright and wanted to make sure Eomer had as well. "Ah! She speaks at last! What was that, my dear?"

"I asked how much," she repeated, tartly. "Why should I leave him unless I think you can offer me more than he already does."

The great golden head slewed in her direction, gazing down at her in disbelief, as though he too was surprised to learn she could speak. His fingers tightened more securely around her elbow.

"Mmmm," the chieftain hummed dreamily, smoke puffing between slightly parted lips before replying to her question, "I can give you what he can't. The best food, the finest gowns, jewels and servants. You'll be able to sleep in the same bed every night. Unless you like roaming Middle earth after this horse herder and spreading your legs for a beast." He tucked the cigar gently back into his mouth.

"No. She belongs to me. She's not going anywhere," Eomer told them, voice fiery.

The pincher-like hold he had on her arm was making the tips of her fingers tingle and ache painfully. With one firm pull, Loti adroitly disentangled herself from his grip. "You can't tell me what to do," she said once she'd wiggled free.

Eomer rounded on her, half his face cast in shadow. "The hell I can't!"

"I'm a free woman! You said so yourself."

"My point exactly," he hissed, in his passion dropping back into his native Rohirric, "You can't give all that up and go back to your old life! I won't allow it."

He reached out, determined to pull her back if only by sheer will. She knew better than to stand within arm's length of the man. The fuse was lit, burning behind his eyes and she didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity when the bomb went off.

"You don't want to be with someone who doesn't want to be with you, do you?"

"Yes," he argued, "I do!"

"Well, you can't always have what you want now can you?" She replied with very little compassion.

His face, his eyes especially, changed very rapidly, becoming dull and heavy lidded with sadness or disbelief. Suddenly, Eomer had the look of a boy who'd just had his heart broken. The outstretched hand turned over, rugged palm now facing upward in supplication.

He was a stubborn son of a bitch, she'd give him that, and he wasn't going to go that easily. "Loti," he said, sternly, beseechingly, for once using her given name, "Come back here."

She wasn't the only one to see the emotion in those soft blue orbs. From behind, the sound of snickering burned in her ears. It was Dar al Din taunting, encouraging his fellows to join in while nudging his nearest brother with an elbow. "Aw, he's in love with her! Only a fool falls in love with a whore. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

The hand withdrew a fraction. "And how many whores do you keep?" Eomer snarled, canine teeth gleaming feral and white, "A whole harem, I suppose."

The young man's face flushed deeply at the insult, turning a similar color of black at the night sky. Between the insult, the murderous look Eomer was shooting at him and the hand resting menacingly on the dagger at his waist, Dar al Din made a prudently choked off whatever other witty one liners popped into his mind. Shutting up was possible the best thing al Din the younger had done all night. Although, the image of Dar al Din crumpling to the ground, the gem mounted dirk socketed in the base of his throat was quite appealing…

"I won't let you do this," he said, deadly earnest.

"It's already done," Loti declared, as one of Izz al Din's finely manicured hands cupped her narrow waist, tucking her safely against his side as though she were some prized object looted from a ransacked palace. "Besides, we both knew this wasn't going to last forever, you and me. And it wasn't like there was any love between us, was there?"

Eomer stood utterly still, only the riffling of the breeze through his unbound hair differentiating him from the statues in the garden. Lion in the grass, was it? Yes, most definitely! But not because of his hair. Because of the way he looked right now, quiet, still, wound with unleashed tension, waiting for the opportunity to pounce. To kill.

His jaw bunched and flexed in that fiercely Rohirric way.

"No," he said again, and whether this word was agreement or protest, she couldn't really tell. The hand, which had retreated to his side, thrust forward again. "You don't need to do this. Come away with me now." It wasn't a demand. It was a plea.

Several thousand years of female instinct tugged at her emotions, urging her to run to him, throw herself into his arms and let this man who believed himself the defender of her honor fight their way their way to freedom, or die together in a pool of their mingled blood.

Believing herself to be his defender, Loti lifted one shoulder in a shrug and replied a little weakly. "I know I don't need to, E. I want to."

There was something in his voice, though, that had alarm bells going off in her head. Surely he must realize what she was up to! In the unlikely case that he was being thickheaded, Loti gave him her best 'You know what I'm doing, don't you?' look, fully expecting him to acknowledge it and return it with his own 'Woman, when I get my hands on you, you won't be able to sit for a week!' glare, but his features remained unreadable, hard and cold as chilled granite.

Then the hand withdrew to hang slack at his side and some of the tension seemed to ease from his shoulders, loosening his posture and his head bobbed just a bit, imperceptibly, as though in acknowledgement of her plan. _Ah, he did understand_, Loti thought with some relief, the knot twisting her insides dissipating just a fraction.

Finally, after a long, tense pause, he sniffed, wrinkling his nose. "Will I ever see you again?" he asked, tonelessly. Under a tightly reined façade of great emotion, his voice, always raspy, was like rusty iron. The pulse in the sun browned throat beat with a fast, rhythmic throb and a sheen of sweat glistened on the high, flat cheekbones.

Not reckless by nature, this strategy for escape had been a calculated risk; it had never occurred to Loti that she wouldn't see Eomer or his men again.

He waited, obviously seeking instruction, this being her idea and all. "Go home, Eomer," she answered, indirectly.

"All finished with your goodbyes, my dear?" Looking far too pleased with himself, al Din delighted in sliding his hand to her hip, indulgently squeezing one half of her rear, fondling the wares. That bastion of taciturnity, Eomer stood alone, tall, proud and silently snarling, in that way in which she would always remember him.

"What is it your people say?" al Din asked, removing the cigar from his mouth, "You win some, you lose some?"

Eomer gave him one of those icy blue looks that froze the hearts out of ordinary men, correcting. "All's fair in love and war."

"Ah, that's it."

"You'll give me your word that you won't harm him, that he'll make it home safe? Ahm…Please," she added hastily catching the annoyed spasm in al Din's olive skinned cheek. Belatedly, she considered that warlords, especially warlords with secret and eclectic sexual tastes, don't particularly want to be humiliated in front of the men they commanded. For al Din had a secret and a weakness…And Loti had just figured it out!

While the males of the species were yapping and rooster blocking—no, that wasn't it…damn all these strange Rohirric idioms!—Loti was wondering about the man, replaying the night's events, recalling what she had observed and that incident there on the front steps played once again in her mind's eye.

Izz al Din was a man of wealth, excessive lifestyle, great influence, surely. A chieftain. A general. A man who wielded an iron fist of power within a society, crushing and dominating those they perceived as weak. Conscienceless. Knowing his willingness to go to war, his lust for blood and conquer and destruction of all who opposed him, he certainly didn't strike her as a man who would tolerate impertinence of any kind…

Then, suddenly, it hit her full on in the face! The slight smile that played on his lips when she'd chastened his son, the look of amusement on his face, the shiny black gleam of dilated pupils all made perfect sense.

Every man had a sexual weakness, a hidden chink in his well developed suit of masculine armor. Something that made his blood thicken and roar, his body made ready, ridged, erect. For some, like Eomer, it was danger, for others it might be dirty talking, or inflicting pain. Still for others, it might be a part of a woman's body, elbows or wrists, knees or ankles or feet, or possibly objects—shoes, scarves, jewelry—which roused and gratified them. While outwardly tyrannical and authoritarian, amazingly, in the irony of all ironies, Izz al Din liked dominate women!

"Oh, with a certainty," he agreed to her request mildly, then turned then to his sons. "Escort our guest to the stables and see that he's…" he paused as though for effect. "well taken care of… and then set him on his way."

Resisting the urge to stick a foot out and trip all three of al Din's foppish offspring as they stepped forward to play escort, Loti let Izz al Din angle her away. His men turned with him, scimitars clanging at their sides, but al Din paused after a few steps, turning back as if suddenly remembering an important piece of unfinished business. Two fingers delved into the front pocket of his tunic, searching. In the moonlight, the coin winked gold as it was tossed, landing in the gravel at Eomer's feet with a plop.

As different as two men could be, yet still leaders of men, their eyes met, brown and blue, calculating and rash. "Never let it be said that I wasn't an honest man," he remarked to her erstwhile—Valar! What was Eomer to her? Captor, savior, employer? Certainly not her friend, nor was he her enemy. Well, whatever he was to her, he was most definitely 'former'. "Come, my dear."

With one last look at the northern giant, Loti allowed herself to be towed off into the night, numb as a stunned fish, a hollowness in the center of her chest where her heart should have been.

XXX

He stooped, picking the shiny yellow bit of metal out of the dust and stones of the path. Nestled heftily in the cup of his hand, Eomer appraised the coin with mingled anger, dispassion, and disgust.

Flanked by his brothers, al Din's eldest son, a little fucker some twelve inches below the top of Eomer's own head, bowed slightly with mock cordiality. "This way, _my lord_," he said with a gesture of the hand towards the stables, indicating for Eomer to precede him down the path, unable to conceal the glint of malicious intent in his beady vulture's eye.

_Like that was it? _Well, Eomer couldn't say he wasn't really surprised…

Pursing his lips in a moment's hesitation, he stared down the path where she had disappeared. He wasn't much of one to feel panic, but he was beginning to feel the first twinges of it, a cramping in his belly that made him want to bend over at the waist. This was an altogether different kind of terror; not like fighting for his life against an enemy on the battlefield, or the fear of finding snakes in his bed. With a twist of his guts, he remembered the last time he'd felt like this, all sweaty palmed and short of breath with that nasty acidic taste in the back of his throat. When he'd thought his sister dead, her life given up for his cause.

But the damn woman wasn't dead, he reminded himself. Just…gone.

_Not dead…yet…_ that very unhelpful voice in the back of his head interjected.

"After you," the younger man said, making another movement of his hand.

Eomer shook off those thoughts, looking down his nose at Dar al Din with the same sort of contempt he used to give dwarves, then spun on his heel. The guards, a bunch of big, burly bastards blocking the path, parted, allowing him to pass. And, as reluctant and grim as a condemned man on his way to the gallows, he strode down the path with a straight backed swagger, his newly acquired entourage following.

By all he held holy, he was going to get her back. He didn't know how yet or when exactly, but Bema be damned, he was coming back.

His fingers closed tightly around the coin.

XXX

Loti watched Izz al Din from across the cavernous bedchamber, a faint spill of moonlight, filtered through scudding clouds, silhouetting his black shape against the open balcony doors as he strolled casually about the room, fastidiously touching the backs of furniture or running his finger along some piece of statuary, slowly, as though it were the warm, soft swell of a lover's hip instead of cold, unfeeling marble.

Relatively speaking, it was a simply furnished chamber, considering its size and much like the man itself, well planned, carefully designed and sterile, devoid of the little human touches that made a house a home. Bulky couches, chairs and tables stood here and there; black humped shapes like sleeping animals. Silk rugs lay on the floor waiting just waiting for the right opportunity to skid out from under foot. Behind her was the bed. Large and imposing, its four mahogany posters rose like pillars, disappearing into the night black ceiling, the velvet bed curtains stirring in a breeze. A white marble fireplace took up very little space against one wall, its black square blending in seamlessly with the dark of the room. Loti angled her head just a bit to take in the huge painting perched on the mantelpiece. It was some artist's imaginative rendition of the destruction of Nuemenor, complete with apocalyptic house burnings, tidal waves, sea monsters (she didn't remember these from the stories (well, it was an interpretation after all), artistic license, she assumed), fleeing mothers clutching babies to their bare bosoms, lightning bolts shooting from clouds, human sacrifices, great crevices devouring whole villages, a long suffering Ar-Pharazon, an evil looking visage of Sauron, the chaos of the Faithful abandoning the island all together in a panicked exodus, and Elendil, looking philosophic about the whole thing as he sailed doggedly eastward.

He hadn't spoken—yet—but she was sure he would shortly. She was his now, afterall; his servant, his prisoner, his slave. Offer made, price negotiated, terms accepted. Services yet to be rendered… She felt dirty, like a rag that long ago needed washing.

She didn't want to do this, she admitted, mentally cursing herself, but there seemed few options left. Izz al Din needed to be kept busy until Eomer was well and safely away. By the time the damage to his office was discovered, with any luck, she'd be well away also.

When al Din and his henchmen emerged from the shrubbery, a dozen horrible outcomes to this night had cascaded through her mind, turning over and gaining speed like an avalanche, each more terrible than the last. Eomer was arrogant, even reckless about what might happen to him if he were caught, had boasted, to no one's surprise, that al Din wouldn't kill him. To do so would be to bring the full force of the Rohirrim down on al Din's clan and on Harad itself; an action they, as of yet, they were not prepared to deal with.

But let Eomer be taken? Lead away to some unknown fate? For surely, that's what would have happened if she hadn't stepped in. No. Loti knew what they would do to him; it had been done to her.

It simply wasn't on.

Oh, she was sure he would be overcome with emotion when he saw her again, (chief among those the urge to murder her where she stood) but, still, better than the alternative, she supposed…

Having finished his meanderings and set down his empty glass, al Din now stood directly in front of her, the sweet smell of rose water on his skin, the alcoholic fumes of port on his breath. Having spent so many months in the company of men who were essentially farmers, men who were bound to the earth, Loti found she preferred their richer, more natural scents; the musk and spice of hard work or the crisp harshness hay and earth underneath the heavier smells of animals and leather.

"What's your name, my dear? You're very beautiful," said Izz al Din, huskily, although he didn't have a particularly deep voice. He inhaled deeply, like a man well contented. "Hair like threads of brown silk, eyes like jewels, skin like the color of polished topaz," his fingers followed the path of his words, caressing hair and check and the slender round of her shoulder. He cupped one breast gently, letting its weight fill his smooth hand, thumb stroking the tender nipple. It stood up, high and hard, against the satin of her gown and the nipple of her other breast rose traitorously in reaction, "And breasts like ripe apples." He pinched the nipple, tweaking it viciously.

Loti drew back her hand and cracked him as hard as she could right across the ear hole. He staggered backward a bit stunned by the strength of such a blow by a girl of her size, clutching the side of his head. Pursuing him with a face like an angry Valar, she caught him again with an open handed slap square on the opposite cheek. He hissed in pain, enjoying it, eyes dilated and all a-glitter. Deciding that kneeing him in the stones would be unproductive, Loti grabbed the lapels of his velvet tunic and pulled hard. There was more tugging and ripping followed by the raking of her nails over his bare chest. Expensive velvet and linen tore noisily. Loose threads flew through the air. Gold buttons popped off, sailing across the room to ping and roll lopsidedly on the stone floor before disappearing under pieces of furniture. She yanked angrily on the laces of his britches and jerked, shoving them to floor to pool around his ankles. He stepped out of them on her order and stood before her naked as an egg.

Slim and sinewy, with wiry dark hairs curling on chest, forearms and crotch, he didn't resemble Eomer in the slightest. Eomer was big and broad, with legs like pillars, arms as long as tree limbs, with just the right amount of hair in all the right spots and privates like—well, they were impressive, indeed. Eomer was an animal, like one of his wild horses, but one that could never be brought to the taming. Izz al Din… He was merely a snake.

Thinking of the woman in yellow silk from the dinner party and the young daughter of that poor man, Asif, Loti bent and retrieved his belt from the discarded pile of torn and ruined clothing, the leather smooth in her hand and still warm from the heat of his body. She folded the improvised strap in half, giving it some slack before snapping it together with a wickedly painful slap that echoed off the bedchamber walls, the thrill of it shivering up her arms.

Under her gown, her nipples tightened in anticipation. Oh, yes, she assured herself, slapping one end of the strap against her palm impatiently, revenge was sweet.

"You may call me Mistress," she said, "Now come over here and turn around."

XXX

In spite of the impending thunderstorm, the streets were still lively and bustling with people, perfumed strongly with the unmistakable odors of humans, animals, dead fish, frying food and churned up mud from the river's banks. This was one of many things he found strange about this place. In a northern city, Minas Tirith or Edoras, even, citizens retreated into their homes after sunset leaving the streets and back alleys to the mercies of thugs, prostitutes and other questionable personages. Here, though, where the sun fried everything and everyone like a piece of meat in a pan, people slowly emerged from their homes at dusk like so many turtles from their shells to congregate with friends and neighbors, or to buy a cheese roll stuffed with olives and sausage from a local stand, or finish up the day's marketing or, simply, to enjoy a few minutes reprieve from sun, sweat and sand fleas.

Eomer was finding no such reprieve. He led Firefoot and Thyrs, the wicked, uncooperative beast, through the throngs, receiving looks of unconcealed surprise, the wall of the al Din compound his point of reference, looming tall, dark, and solid somewhere off to his right. Sweat ran freely down the back of his neck, soaking the high, embellished collar of his gray under tunic and the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing. How in all of bloody fucking Mordor was he going to get back in there without getting caught? Scaling the wall wouldn't be too much trouble…but then there was the oh-so insubstantial problem of crossing acres of dangerously fortified lawns—in the dark, no less—breaking into an unfamiliar house, avoiding servants, guards and guests—the majority of whom would probably would like to see him strung up by his toenails from the front gate—all the while trying to locate the one room among dozens spread out over three floors where the girl just might happen to be at that exact moment, extracting her without creating an international incident—like cutting off al Din's face—and then doing it all over again in reverse! Not to mention that once they got outside the compound, they would have to flea across town, through crowded, poorly lit streets, hoping not to get lost with one hellish thunderstorm and an entire battalion of al Din's best foot soldiers crawling up their backsides!

As he was ruminating on the possibilities of succeeding in this fool hearty venture, selecting an discarding ideas at random, considering everything from the outright foolish—like storming the front doors—to the outlandish—sneaking in disguised as one of the servants (which was one of his better ideas and might have worked if he wasn't so obviously foreign… or tall)— when a pack of filthy faced children barreled into him like starving pigs called to the trough, screeching and generally wrecking havoc through the streets. The horses, sensing his tightly strung nerves and not caring over much for children, shied, heads bobbing and weaving, tugging backwards on the reins like fish fighting a line as the boys scattered and went sailing under horse bellies.

Too busy soothing the agitated horses to pay much attention to the pandemonium, Eomer did, however, during all the jostling and bumping, feel the brush of fingers under his tunic in about the same place a man might conceal his purse…

My gods, he was about to be fleeced! He snatched at the softly groping hand.

The wrist he seized was scrawny, but long, the promise of bone and muscle underneath the cocoa colored skin not yet fully developed. The shoulders were wide, but they too were rather rawboned and perched on top of a neck like an undersized reed was a round, nearly pumpkin shaped head with midnight eyes, a broad snub nose and a big, big mouth.

"You won't find anything but trouble there, boy," Eomer warned, glaring. The other boys continued down the street, rampaging. A man wielding a long loaf of bread chased after them, shouting what Eomer thought for sure had to be socially impolite Haradrim invectives.

"I'm lookin' to eat," the boy said with uncharacteristic boldness of one so young. "You gonna turn me over to the city guard?" He spoke remarkably good Westron, even if it was an odd dialect.

"No," he replied, knowing the likely punishment for theft and its relating crimes was the loss of a finger, or a hand, or some other mutliation.

"I didn't think so. You one of them Rohirrics?"

Eomer took a closer look at the lad in the light from a nearby lantern as it swayed back and forth in the wind on a hook, it's light wavering and insubstantial in the gloom He was about ten or eleven, maybe, taller than average for his age with short curly black hair sprouting from a recently shaven head and he was wearing a most disreputable looking white shirt gone an indeterminate shade of tan over time. A pair of ragged britches stopped well above a pair of dirty ankles but below two boney knees. He also had no shoes to speak of and by the looks of his bare, long toed feet, hadn't for some time.

"I am," Eomer answered, dryly, releasing his hold on the boy. "What gave it away?" He was obviously no threat. Presumably, he'd been stealing or picking pockets to survive. Morally wrong, perhaps, but understandable, nonetheless.

"You got yellow hair, and you a lot—" he was expecting taller, "fatter than the rest of us."

His vanity affronted, Eomer smoothed hands down what he thought was a trim waistline. The fever and infection combined with the unrelenting heat of this dreadful place had left him feeling overly scrawny for a man of his height. "Mmhmm. You're not afraid of me?"

Shrugging in an unconcerned, yet cocky way, he said, "They says you feed your horses live children and you cut the ears and noses off your enemies and keeps 'em as souvenirs. But I ain't never seen a horse eat anythin' 'cept grass and you don't seem like you wearin' any noses or lips, so I don't think the rest of what they say is right either. Besides," his head inclined and his brown eyes narrowed, "if Rohirrics is so powerful why don't they just kill all us and take over the world? Don't make no sense to me. That's what I'd do!"

"Mmhmm. Where're your folks, then…" prompted Eomer, hoping for a name.

The lad tossed his head while simultaneously scratching an armpit. Body lice? Psychosomatically, his scalp felt itchy. "Don't got no father. He dead. My Mama, she over there. In the camp."

The "camp" as the boy put it, was nothing more than a slum. Eomer had seen his fair share of these so called "camps" in the months—now years—since the end of the War. Originally meant to temporarily house those displaced by the war—women and children whose menfolk had died or families whose property and land were destroyed, for example—they were established by governments and run by bureaucrats—usually members of the nobility who cared little if any for the plights of those less fortunate than themselves. Hundreds, if not thousands of men, women and children poured into such camps in the days and weeks following the end of the war and were crammed together like salted sardines in a barrel, eating, sleeping and working in tiny rickety homes cobbled together from whatever miscellaneous debris could be scrounged up or sometimes relegated to living in tents made of old canvas slung over a line of rope and tacked haphazardly to the ground.

What he'd been unprepared for though, was the smell of such places. Having been raised on a farm, he was well acquainted with various and unique kinds of stinks, but the ammoniac stench of overflowing privy pits and animal pens combined with less acute smells of unwashed bodies and human misery was unimaginable. Among people and animals, diseases ran rampant and were commonplace. In the rain, streets—if they could be given such a dignified name—turned to mud and ran virtually day and night with the piss and shit dumped from used chamberpots. Food and bags of grain were left to rot even before reaching those who needed it most. Clean water for hygienic purposes, or simply for drinking or cooking was virtually nonexistent. Fights occurred almost daily over territory, food, and, often, women. There were cases of rape and for many, prostitution was inevitable.

He thought he was immune to human suffering. He was not.

"What does your mother do?" he demanded.

"Don't know. Nothing now. We slaves. The master, he die, and we run off. Mama, she take in some laundry once in a while and she take a man to her bed when she got to. She don't know that I know that." A shadow passed over the child's face that wasn't attributable to the lack of light.

"You don't like when she does that?" He naturally assumed the boy wouldn't care.

"'Couse not!" he exclaimed, hotly, "She's my mother! I still got two good hands. So I helps out. Bring in extra money so she don't got to do that kind of work no more."

Eomer raised an ironical eyebrow. Well, the boy did have some sense of honor, cock-eyed though it may be. "By picking pockets."

Defensively, the boy lifted two dirty hands in the air. "Hey, I'm not judgin' you! What you doin' here anyway? Man lookin' like you gets his guts knifed, he stick around here too long."

Eomer's fingers examined a particularly tender spot on the ridge of one cheekbone, then did the same to his lip where the taste of blood, a coppery bitterness, still lingered in his mouth. "Too late for that," he responded, ruefully.

A bursting sheet of light lit up the sky, pulsing from horizon to horizon, interrupting their discussion, the low hanging clouds flickering as though the storm had its own heartbeat. Thyrs hated thunderstorms. A Skitterish and high strung beast to begin with, he fought backwards against the reins, shod hooves slipping on the stone cobbled street. Tossing Firefoot's lead to the boy, Eomer dove after the backing stallion before the crazy thing killed him or someone else. The big chestnut half reared and plunged, tail arched, massive hindquarters bunched. Possessed of an orneriness and a willfulness equal to that of Thyrs, Eomer dealt with the animal in the way that seemed to work best; with Rohirric insults and unfulfilled threats of castration and the enevitablity he would end up as a rug on his bedchamber floor. Thyrs eventually saw the way of it and gave up the fight, chomping noisily on the bit, blonde mane rippling down the ridge of the elegant brown neck.

Meanwhile, Firefoot stood placidly by, large nostrils flaring inquisitively. After a moment or two with Thyrs, cursing and horse gentling, Eomer rounded on his equine friend, grabbing hold of Firefoot's bridle and yanking the huge oblong head down so they were black eye to black eye."Don't look at me like that. This is your fault. I haven't done anything. You're the one who's supposed to be teaching the wicked bugger some manners!"

Firefoot snorted, spraying his master's hand with horsey snot and tossed his head, exposing huge yellowed teeth, the velveteen lips parted and quivering as though with laughter.

"Your mother was a donkey, you know that?" grumbled the dissatisfied horse owner.

Sensing the boy watching him, Eomer turned to find the whites of his companion's eyes bright against the dark face.

"You like horses?" he asked, taking back the reins.

"Yeah," his young friend nodded. "I likes 'em. They big. Graceful. They like a…" his mouth worked, searching for the word and when he found it, pronounced it carefully as though it were something golden. "en-ig-ma. Something that shouldn't be but is anyway. Horses got them skinny little legs on big fat bodies. Animal look like that, run like that, you think them legs would snap like sticks, but they don't." The boy babbled on, crossing lanky brown arms across a not too clean chest. He stared up at Eomer with a pinched, black eyed look, completely without fear. "Know what I thinks? I think you one of them enigmas. You looks rich. Got fancy clothes, nice horses," the alert dark eyes settled on the green gemstone surmounting the hilt of his dirk, "But you gots rough hands and sunburnt skin like you not afraid of work. That sword, it ain't just for show. The leather there 'round the handle, it be real dirty lookin'. You kill anybody with that?"

Mightily entertained, Eomer squeezed the muscles of his face together to keep from laughing and injuring the boy's pride. He was beginning to recognize the boy's potential. Forthrightness and insight were rare qualities in men twice his own age. However, this scrawny, scratching, bad smelling youth possessed them by the bushel load; those and several other desirable qualities that turned men into leaders.

"Yes," Eomer answered his question, "I have."

"Can I see it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you never draw your sword unless you intend to use it."

As much as he was enjoying this reprieve and his new friend, he really needed to get back to the job at hand.

"Still want to know what I'm doing here?" The wind was whipping his hair all over the place, fingers of wavy gold catching his eyes and beard. He fingered the strands out of his eyes and mouth, and, in a futile attempt at taming them, pushed the loose hair behind his ear. "I'm trying to get in there," he said, half turning and pointing over his shoulder at the wall. It couldn't hurt to tell the lad, he decided. Maybe he could help.

"What you want to get in there for?"

"I left something behind."

"Then go around front and ask." The boy looked at Eomer like he should have been able to figure that one out on his own.

"I can't do that." He pressed his lips into a thin line. His muscles were beginning to twitch involuntarily now, raring with the urge to go. "They booted me out of the party."

"Forget it then. You looks rich enough. You buy another of whatever it was."

"What I lost can't be replaced," he explained, calmly, "It's important to me. I need to know if you've ever gone over the wall." His friend licked his lips and hesitated. Suspiring noisily, Eomer made to reassure him, setting one hand on the boy's bony shoulder. "Look, I don't care what you did or why you did it. Your reasons are your own. A man will do what he must for his family."

The wide shoulders squared and the lean chest puffed up, taking the compliment for what it was. "Yeah, I been in there lot's of times. Stealing food…and other stuff," he finally admitted.

"Mmhmm." From inside his shirt, Eomer produced the small leather purse he wore around his neck as protection against thieves and pickpockets, its slight weight giving him sudden inspiration. A few coins jangled together in the bottom of the bag. "You want to make some money. Honest money?"

The boy seemed eager, but outwardly skeptical. "Yeah, I guess. I help you get in there."

Heaping praise upon himself for manipulating an eleven year old boy, Eomer smiled crookedly, tucked away the purse and asked, "What's your name?"

"Melisizwe."

Impolitely, Eomer frowned. "What kind of name is that?"

"A good one," the boy shot back, drawing his eyebrows together so he looked like a jack o lantern with that pumpkin shaped head. "I being called after my father."

Eomer felt embarrassed and mumbled something suitably apologetic.

Melisizwe then asked, "What your name be?"

He smiled crookedly, for surely, his name would sound just as ridiculous to a black skinned boy from Far Harad as Melisizwe sounded to a Rohirric soldier. Clearly it was, because it took several times before the boy got it right. "What kind of name's that?"

"A good one," Eomer snorted, still grinning sideways, "I was named after my father, too. Sort of."

"I thinks I just be callin' you 'Sir.'" Melisizwe said, dryly.

"Fine." Eomer let his smile broaden, "Well, go ahead then. Lead on, friend."

Through streets slightly less crowded than before, down dark back alleys stinking of rot with something squishy underfoot, and around dilapidated brick and mortar buildings, their foundations crumbling from age or neglect, Mel led him and the horses. They made amiable chit chat about this and that and out of necessity, Eomer had taken to calling the lad Mel, since he couldn't actually say Melisizwe without butchering it.

A few minutes later they arrived at the wall, that barrier which kept Eomer from Loti.

The incongruous pair then spent another couple of minutes discussing Eomer's strategy; the patterns the guards walked, places one could conceal oneself, the possibility of certain entrances being left unattended, and the approximate location of Izz al Din's private bedchamber, assuming that's where he and Loti would eventually end up.

A curious boy, Mel abruptly asked, "What's so important to go through all this trouble? What'd you lose in there?" Two pairs of equine nostrils flared, sniffing the air surrounding the dirty little boy censoriously. Once ensuring the beasts' sense of propriety by being properly introduced, they seemed to like Mel well enough.

Head on one side, Eomer contemplated the skinny Mel for a second before answering, fiddling with Firefoot's saddle. "A woman."

"A woman? Aw, man...!" Mel whined.

"You'd like her," Eomer found himself saying defensively, "She's very nice."

"She your wife, then?"

"No." Removing his sword belt for better ease of movement, he kept aside the unsheathed dirk, slipping it inside the shaft of his boot. "I'm not married."

"I see. She be your mistress."

"Uh-uh. We're…She's—" he scratched his beard, consideringly. Saying they were master and servant was so pompous, so unfeeling. "It's not like that between us."

Mel dodged as Firefoot's head swung around, his rubbery lips nibbling energetically at Eomer's shirt sleeve. Annoyed, he batted the animal's head away. "Really?" he asked, staring directly into the one glassy, bulging eye on the side horse's head. His sleeve was wet with horse slobber.

"Man, you a fool, you know that? Riskin' your neck for a woman when you isn't even sleepin' with her," commented Mel, uncharitably.

"You don't have to be sticking your cock in a woman to risk your life for her. I told you, she's special. You'll see when you meet her," Eomer said. Out of the corner of his eye, he registered the boy's confusion. Obviously, the idea that a man would do something so selfless for a woman had never occurred to him. Perhaps if the boy had a father to teach him such things… But no, the lad's ideas about women were clearly influenced by the men with whom he'd been associating.

"She pretty at least?" Mel wanted to know.

A muscle in the corner of his mouth quivered. "Very."

"She got a nice body?" The shabby clothing Meisizwe's body ruffled in the wind so he looked much like a skinny tree limb wearing rags.

Eomer cut blue eyes at the boy, unable to keep the growing smile off his lips. "Nice enough."

"Nice tits?"

Not thrown off by the bluntness of this question, he lowered his eyelids half way, the feel of small, firm breasts cupped in his hands and nipples rising eagerly under his touch still fresh in his mind. "Mmm," he said in a dreamy tone. A woman's body really was a garden of earthly delights, he thought with a restive stirring of his loins.

"Isn't we gonna talk about how much you gonna pay me?" Mel asked, taking both sets of reins in his boyish hands.

Having finished his final preparations, Eomer was hot to trot, both to rescue Loti and to return to the camp before the storms broke. He wanted to say, "No. Why?" but his mother had taught him better than that. "Alright. I'll give you three guineas, half now, half when I get back."

Mel declined the offer emphatically. "No way! Six now. The rest if you all come back."

Eomer choked; he _was_ being fleeced! "Six— You want twelve guineas for watching the horses for half an hour? For that much I'll just let the horses wander. And what do you mean, _if_?"

"Them horses be gone by the time you gets back."

"Is that a threat?" asked Eomer, his temper starting to fray around the edges.

"No. Somebody less honest than me'll come along and steal 'em for sure."

Eomer was inclined to think anybody desperate or stupid enough to steal these two beasts would probably live to regret it. Still…

Neatly boxed in, Eomer felt himself wedged somewhere in the crack between compassion for the boy's plight of poverty and plain old Rohirric tightfistedness. But he certainly couldn't just leave two valuable horses alone to wander or be stolen. "You're an extortionist, you know that?"

"A man with any kindness woulda just given me the money."

"Mmhmm," he answered sourly.

"Mama and me, we needs the money. Unless…you got a better idea?" The eyes in Mel's pumpkin shaped head were the same color brown as the chocolate fudge Eomer's sister loved to gorge herself on. Now, there was also something else in those eyes: cunning mixed with nerve.

Good gods! He _was_ being extorted!

_Well… and why not?_ Eomer thought, considering this unexpected proposal. The boy needed a father. And he…well, he needed…something. And besides, if he was any judge of character, with his uncanny acumen and resourcefulness, the boy wouldn't be a filthy, stinky, slovenly mess for long. Better to have the boy occupying his side of the table rather than meeting him someday on the other.

Exhaling like someone who knows he's been bested by another, Eomer flipped a hand, saying, "Go on, take the horses and get your mother. But try to be back here in half an hour, eh, or the deal's off."

Mel's teeth flashed in the dark circle of his face.

Satisfied and anxious to get going, Eomer now turned to more important matters.

The wall was granite, its smooth surface spangled with flecks of minerals that flashed like starlight, at least two feet thick and really high. But not so high that a very tall man standing on top of a very tall horse couldn't reach the top. Good thing he had long arms…

Eomer hoisted himself up and over with a grunt, landing on the other side with a thud that jarred the abused muscles of his abdomen and fought back the urge to hiss curses and double over in pain. His guts hurt something awful as did the twisted remnants of his mangled thigh. Having sustained so much trauma, it didn't surprise him that the one leg was still much weaker than the other. He was sure he'd hurt much worse come morning.

As he ran, the pain gradually began to subside, its ache replaced by the thrill of imminent battle—tingling lips and fingertips, and ears that roared with the loud beat of his own heart.

He wouldn't be the only one hurting in the morning, Eomer muttered to himself, hurdling a decorative pond like a stag over a turnstile. When he got his hands on her…

Damn the woman! Damn all women for that matter! Especially the willful ones! Most especially the willful ones with brains in their conniving, deceitful brown heads! A woman was necessary for a man's survival, needful in so many ways, but, by heaven and earth, they were also the bane of man's existence! With women the likes of Loti and Eowyn running around Middle earth, it was no wonder he was still unmarried. Those two alone would push in to the edge of his sanity!

Hunkering down amid a copse of spicy smelling bushes, he paused to catch his breath before making another dash. Branches snarled his hair and thorns picked at his clothes. Of course, he'd have to pick a prickly bush!

Now that he had a minute, this was the first opportunity he'd had to take it all in. His mind still reeled from the shock of it all! How could she do it? Break her word to him! Resume a life he thought she'd left in the past! Didn't she trust him to keep her safe? He'd have gladly traded his life for hers.

Gods! If they found out who she was…

In that most romantic of settings, were love and respect should have prevailed over the evil that invaded, she had unequivocally severed all ties to him and whatever relationship that they had begun that night in his tent on the road to Harad. The opposite of love was not hate, he knew; it was indifference. And it was that unexpected indifference towards him which had torn his guts out.

"…_It wasn't like there was any love between us…"_

Wasn't there? For the first time he accepted the possibility that Alima might be right. Respect was a form of love. And he'd thought there was at least that between them.

Pressing a fist to his mouth to muffle the sound, he mumbled, "The murderous, backstabbing, two timing, double dealing wench," and then added several other uncomplimentary names in hindsight.

"…_you don't want to be with someone who doesn't want to be with you…"_

What if he did? Part of him felt hurt and insulted; in truth, what he really felt was betrayal. He had—did—care about her. Sadly, stupidly, he was naïve enough to think she cared about him, too.

Damn himself! And his benevolence!

_That's what you get, cock, for having high expectations_…_Disappointment. _

Another thought manifested itself, one that rooted him to the spot in his prickly refuge. Had she done this out of spite, purposely meaning to hurt him? She'd blamed him, blamed him for what had been done—for what he now knew he had done—to her brother, what remained of herself. Was she still angry? Mad enough to hold a grudge this long? To see him every day, smile, make conversation, eat alongside him at noontide, all the while plotting her revenge? Had she planned all along to abandon him and return to these…these "men" who'd abused her?

_Impossible!_ He scoffed. He just could not—would not—believe it!

_She is a spy… _said the small, niggling voice of caution in the back of his mind. _She's been trained to hide her identity, her thoughts, her feelings. She knows how to manipulate men, how to make them fall for her. What makes you think you're any different, cock? How much do you really know about her, hmm?_

"But she saved my life," he mumbled back to the invasive voice, "Why not let me die? Why not kill me any of a dozen times, run away when she had the chance?"

Lost in the wanderings of his own mind, he'd been oblivious to the crunching of footsteps on one of the many crisscrossing paths. Eomer didn't speak Haradrim, but had enough sense to figure out what was being said. He froze, crouched under cover of night and windblown greenery, holding his breath, hoping the pounding tattoo of his heartbeat couldn't be heard outside his chest.

"Hold on. You hear that?" said a man with a voice like the lowing of cattle.

The grating sound of boots scrunching on gravel halted abruptly. Then all was quiet for a moment as two pairs of ears strained to hear over the storm's bluster. From his place in the bushes, Eomer could see the bright red of their coats through the scrim of thorny branches.

"No. I didn't hear anything," said a second man. "Probably just some animal in the bushes. Nothing to worry about."

Shot with adrenaline, his muscles quivered and twitched from holding still. Eomer prayed they wouldn't be inclined to investigate and find out just what kind of animal it was!

There was another sound, this one like the companionable slapping of a hand on a shoulder. "Come one," the second man invited, "Let's hurry up before we get struck by lightning," and they shuffled off, scimitars rattling at their sides.

Eomer wasn't going anywhere for the moment, and subsided first on to his knees and then his backside, sucking in long, deep breaths through his nose, inhaling the odd combination of sea air, ozone, and damp shrubbery.

Unable to find any sufficient answers to his questions, he rolled his fingertips over thudding temples, trying to, and failing, to ease the ache of fruitless musings inside his skull. Dejection was beginning to seep in like flood waters under a door. He just didn't know anything anymore.

Wrong. He did know one thing and sat up a little straighter, his jaw and fists clenched.

He knew what al Din meant to do with the girl, could see it. Could see the under sized prick in those baby soft hands that had never known labor, or toil or struggle. Could see its stubby blunt end poking, disappearing between her smooth, sleek thighs, surging in and out of that hot, gloriously slippery hole, giving her pleasure.

What he thought was the local guard dog come to flush him out, Eomer was surprised to find, instead, that it was himself, growling and gnashing his teeth.

The hammering in his head was back. To keep tormenting himself about it was the easy way to madness…or apoplexy, if he wasn't careful. He chose instead, to yield to memories of Loti; the feel of her curves in his hands, the taste and jiggle of her breast on his lips, the sensation of a nipple between his teeth, firm and aroused under the flicking of his tongue, the hitch and sigh of breath that meant she'd liked what he was doing. Has she been wet? A woman's body never lied no matter what she might say to the contrary.

He put a hand to the laces of his britches, cupped a hand and rubbed lightly. He'd been a long time without a woman and these vivid imaginings certainly weren't helping his cause.

A few deep breathing exercises and a count to fifty — ten not being sufficient enough—and Eomer gradually began to relax, letting the brief burst of physical activity soothe his mind.

As a young man training to become a soldier, Eomer had always hated exercising. Practically born with a weapon in his hand, combined with his height, strength, reach and the natural talent inherited from his father, who was, without question, the Riddermark's fiercest swordsman, Eomer found practice time boring and unstimulating, so he'd ample opportunity for goofing around. This also meant he'd spent plenty of time getting his hide blistered by Elfhelm or his uncle for being a slackheaded, lackwitted, insubordinate, stubborn, lazy dolt. The importance of exercise and practice, Elfhelm explained once—well, in reality it was more like yelling while he repeatedly dunked Eomer's head in an icy horse trough—was to order the mind so that brain and body could function independently. Practice would train the muscles of the body to react without conscious thought, allowing a warrior's mind the ability to concentrate on other things as the battle waged around him. As Eomer had grown older, he'd recognized the value of these disciplines, long held by soldiers throughout the ages. Even now, as he prepared to push his body to the limit, beyond the point of physical pain, he was able to think rather clearly considering the depth of his enmity.

The thoughts were gaining speed, rolling downhill like boulders and crashing together; bills that must be paid to the Gondorian Brotherhood of Carpenters guild for the remodeling of the townhouse in Minas Tirith before they sent someone round to smash in his kneecaps, a groomsman's gift for Faramir—something expensive but understated, like the man (crystal brandy snifters, a pair of gold cuff links, perhaps?), Eowyn's dower—although, Eomer wasn't sure what his future brother in law intended to do with twenty five bolts of undyed wool, forty egg laying chickens, ten bear hides, fifty battle trained stallions, three milch goats, a whiskey still, and half a ton of oats (presumably, he wouldn't suffer from costiveness anytime soon)—discharges that needed checking, horses that needed shoeing and once again, he'd circled back to the disheartening prospect that he'd been wrong about Loti's loyalty.

Was he risking his life for nothing? If she chose to stay… Well, then, fine, the bitch could stay. But he must hear it from her. Must know why, try to convince her otherwise. Was it something he'd done, said? Something he'd not done or said?

Eomer felt as though he'd suffered a traitor's death, heart and guts slit from body and thrown upon the fire.

The guts in question cramped suddenly, not from any embarrassing digestive aliment, nor yet thoughts of disembowelment.

His gut…

Grima, Saruman, Aragorn. Loti.

Normally, he prided himself on his ability to read people. It wasn't something that was learned or practiced as much as it was just a feeling, an instinct. And he'd swear on his own life he hadn't—had not—been wrong about her, either.

Dear fuck! What if-?

He sat up as if jolted by a bolt of lightning, shrubbery rustling.

Holy Iluvatar! He really was a slackheaded, lackwitted fool!

What if she hadn't betrayed him!

He needed to remember that he and Loti were different in one very important way. She was careful, thorough, thoughtful, methodical even, not a rash, reckless, brainless meatball that survived on emotion and adrenaline. It was her well ordered, systematic nature which made her such an invaluable member of his staff. The woman never visited the privy without first making a plan. But neither was she a shilly shally-er. Once her mind was set upon some course, she acted and with sometimes brutal, knife point precision.

A grin split the wide mouth as he both laughed and choked, wishing for a way to simultaneously kill her and kiss her. Both hands ran over his face and through his hair regardless of the snags and pricks of the bush's thorns. Was she expecting him to come to her rescue? Well by Eru, he was going to find out!

Eomer was up and running again, frantic with imagination, charging head long across the ornamental garden, heedless of patrolling guards or obstacles, no longer soft footed as an elf but loud, like the racket a stag makes crashing through the woods, the boiling of his blood the catalyst for his action. Gravel spurted from beneath his boots as he rocketed down the main path in the direction of the big house and, when the path meandered in the opposite direction, he cannoned through a manicured evergreen hedge like a battering ram, ignoring scratches and needles alike, emerging ready for battle on the other side. He leapt an herbaceous border, cut through a grassy verge, and nearly slit the throat of some unlucky marble elf lurking behind a bush.

Mel was as good as his word and Eomer easily located three doors into the house, each inconveniently guarded. Yes, Eomer could take the men, he was much larger and better skilled, if slightly armed, but he didn't want to kill anyone unnecessarily. Not only because of conscience but because unwilling men never go to their graves quietly.

With none of the entrances Mel described accessible, Eomer was forced to backtrack and implement Plan B, approaching the three storied mansion from underneath what he hoped was al Din's private suite of rooms. The walls of the stone structure were cool against his back as he rested, lathered and winded like a hard ridden horse, pleasant in contrast to the warm, increasingly damp night air. Sweat plastered the fine linen of his tunic to the skin of his arms, back and chest. Next to him, the stone wall jutted out, and rising up the side of the building was a latticed wooden trellis covered in a thick vine of some kind—blessedly, not a prickly one. Eomer appraised it with doubt, tested it for sturdiness with a little shake, took his dagger from his boot, set it between his teeth and with a brief plea to Bema for the repose of his soul, tentatively began to climb.

He felt rather piratical with the steel blade set between his teeth, or like a hero in one of those romantic stories women loved so much; the prince come to save the damsel in distress. Except that he was a king, not a prince, the damsel more like a harpy and she hadn't actually been captured by his evil nemesis nor held against her will and, therefore, wasn't technically in distress. So in reality it wasn't anything like he'd thought. Took the pressure off him to be the gallant, dashing hero, didn't it? Barbarian raider was more maybe more apt. Like the men of Dunland. Wild haired, blacked eyed, with the lust for destruction and the desire to do violence, he'd drag the innocent village maiden back to his homeland by the hair, claiming her as the spoils of war, raping and pillaging to his heart's content. Much less gallant, but it at least satisfied his more basic First Age tendencies.

Half way up, a wild gust of wind rattled the trellis so violently Eomer wondered if he wouldn't topple off! A little higher, and he heard noises, a gasp and a moan and a grunt; one male, one female. His stomach dropped and he climbed faster. His head popped up over the edge, finding the balcony's double doors thrown wide to the night. Catching hold of the small terrace's stone railing, he eased over it without a noticeable ruckus, pressing himself into the shadows.

Even having expected it didn't prepare him for what he saw.

She was there, with him, his back to Eomer, half slumped in a velvet upholstered couch so only his head and shoulders were visible, Loti, straddling al Din, a strap of some sort in her hand, bare shoulders and breasts luminous, outlined in the faint spark of far off lightning. The even fainter grumble of thunder in the distance was echoed low down in his own chest. He fled back, even more deeply into the shadows, watching covertly, not out of voyeuristic curiosity, but rather as a means to gather the broken pieces of his mind. Cracked and irretrievably broken, the attempt failed utterly, as he knew it would.

It is said men in a state of extreme anger suffer from a 'black rage', the black part having to do with the man's inability to recall events after the fit subsides. For Eomer this was not the case. Everything behind his eyes cracked and splintered, flaming instantaneously red, then detonating in a flash of white like an exploding sun, shards like broken fragments of ice rimming the edges of his vision.

The antithesis to the belief that exercise and practice orders the mind was blood lust; when all was lost to the urge to maim and kill. He could feel it coming on him, felt it itch in his heels, creep up the backs of his legs, tingle his tailbone and deep in his testicles…Tried to fight it off, keep it at bay at least for the moment; sane thought was impossible once trapped in its sticky web.

As shreds of thin clouds veiling the moon shifted and parted, Eomer stepped out of the dark and into the doorway, silhouetted by quicksilver light.

Her eyes widened at sight of him, surprised, but as she was otherwise too engaged to offer him greeting, recovered quickly, pressing a finger to her lips to shush him, cupping the back of al Din's olive shaped head and pointing at it.

He shook his head, brows drawn together, angrily waving her away with an urgent motion of his hands. Something was rising in Eomer like the super heated steam through the channels of a geyser. That something was jealousy.

Loti's lips flattened and the tilted jewel eyes narrowed. She jerked the man's head forward quite forcefully and made a series of emphatic gestures, stabbing a finger first at Eomer and then at the base of al Din's neck. Eomer answered with a similarly emphatic gesture of another finger. Just then Izz al Din arched, sighed and slapped Loti solidly on the rear with both hands, digging his fingers into that lovely, tender flesh, causing her to squeak like a startled mouse and the geyser inside Eomer to blow up.

In retrospect, standing there with the lightning behind him, the ends of his unbound hair lifting in the wind, and the etched blade of his dagger flashing, he must have looked like one of the monsters from the old stories come to life, a snorting, huffing troll, lips drawn back from his teeth, snarling like a half crazed wolf. But, surprisingly, he made no sound.

Fortunately for Eomer, Izz al Din had never been a soldier and thus wasn't possessed of the innate sense of situational awareness all real soldiers had or he would have recognized the danger long before.

It took three steps for Eomer to cross the room. Seeing him with blood in his eye, Loti stiffened, cringed and ducked, still holding al Din's head against her chest, perhaps thinking he was coming to clobber her instead, which he greatly would liked to have done! Drawing back a fist, he whacked the snake eyed bastard in the back of the head with the butt end of the dirk; his fantasy of ramming the razor sharp tip into the base of al Din's skull regretfully unsatisfied. With a sound like a melon being split, the chieftain's body went limp, slumped forward and toppled face first to the floor, Loti squashed underneath him like a bug under a fly whisk.

Never one to hesitate, Eomer was around the edge of the couch in a heartbeat. He was breathing hard, the dirk still clutched in his hand, shoulders tense with each rise and fall of his chest. His hand caught Loti's flailing one, hauling her out from underneath the unconscious man and flinging her across the room. There was a crash of furniture and a cry as though she were in pain, but he barely registered it. His knees and arms were beginning to tremble, his heart thumping with the same regularity, the same skull splitting pounding of a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil.

The inert figure below was bleeding from the dunt to the head, but the slight expansion of the slim chest reassured Eomer that the chieftain, as of yet, unfortunately, had not met his end. Using the toe of his boot, Eomer prodded the helpless man in the ribs like he was something undesirable and rolled him over with a sneer of distaste pulling at his mouth.

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, staring, before someone or something touched his arm. Still sunk in madness, he acted reflexively, making a sound like a rabid grizzly bear and got a hold of what or whoever it was. It made wheezing, choking sounds and pawed frantically at his hand. _Ah, he had ahold of the buggerer's throat, then_, and squeezed harder. Only when he heard a high pitched, gasping, "eeee!" sound, did Eomer realize what he had a hold on was small, soft and feminine. It was Loti, purple faced and panicked.

He pushed her away as though she were unclean, diseased, like a leper.

She coughed, wheezed like a leaky bellows and gagged but would survive the worst of his homicidal rages.

The fury was beginning to leave him now, trickling out in tingles through the tips of fingers and toes, the taste of blood swallowed, leaving him sweaty and hot and, as always, bizarrely calm, as if he floated, suspended somewhere, oblivious of both time and space .

Recovered from her fit, Loti stood frozen, well away from both he and the limp body, not deigning to come to him, nor he to her. Was she too afraid of what he might do next? Well, she should be! When he'd climbed the trellis, Eomer wasn't sure whether he'd come to rescue her or ravish her. He knew now that he could—and would—do both, given the chance. His penis was half stiff and his testicles ached with yearning, burned deep within with the fire of his blood. Right this instant, willing or no, he wanted nothing more than to bend her over the bed, push her face down into the feather mattress, twine a fistful of her hair around his hand and fill her with himself. Use her as a stallion does a mare, roughly, with violence, with no thought of anyone's pleasure but his own, teach her the meaning of the word master.

Blinking, his vision was still a bit muzzy, filled with tendrils of mist and he could see nothing more than a pale outline. She was entirely nude, limbed in a nimbus of moonbeams, smudged gold and silver, but he knew her to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever set eyes on.

And the most infuriating.

They looked at each other for a long moment before Eomer, ashamed, ordered, "Put this on," and tossed Loti the crumple heap of lilac satin.

"What are you doing?" She came forward into the faint spray of light slicing through the balcony doors, squinting, voice raspy, the bit of flimsy fabric clutched to her breasts. "You're not going to kill him? Eomer!" Reaching out, she made to stop him from doing something he shouldn't.

Kneeling next to the dark, man-shaped blob on the carpet, he gave her the same sideways look Mel had given him a little while ago, like she should have known better. She withdrew the hand.

"No. I'm not. What kind of fool do you take me for?" he said and muttered some other unkind things, pressing two fingers to the man's carotid just to be sure he wasn't dead. "Put your clothes on, woman."

"What are you doing then?" she demanded, hissing in a low voiced response before coughing again in a very girlish way and clearing her throat. Some of her hair had come loose from its pins and longs strands of it draped over her shoulders.

Digging into a pocket, he unearthed the coin, gold edge sparking in the light. He lifted one of al Din's slack hands, pushed the coin in the center of the palm, closed the fingers and set it across the bare chest. Her scent was on the man, in his nostrils, the light sweetness of her perfume and something heavier and tangy, a smell he knew well. Then he stood up, stifling the urge to kick the son of a bitch in the ribs, and heard the whisper of satin cloth, saw the shadowy lines of high-peaked, small breasts and round, smooth buttocks as firm as a sow's ass in a dark corner.

For some reason livestock lent itself well to analogy today.

"How are we going to get out of here?" the possessor of that delicious rump wondered from the corner.

"Huh?" He was momentarily distracted by thoughts of silky, smooth thighs and dark, secret places.

"You. Me. Escaspe. How are we going to?" She emerged back into the center of the room, bobbing unevenly back and forth, one heeled slipper on, the other in her hand.

He scowled heavily, biting the inside of his mouth in consternation. Actually, he didn't have a plan for escape, but wasn't going to tell her that! It occurred to him, though, that going out the same way he'd come in was the only viable option and made briskly for the balcony, hoping she hadn't seen his face.

Too late. She saw. "You do have an escape plan, don't you?" She was following close behind, hopping after him on one foot like a drunk child playing hopscotch, trying to put the second shoe on her other foot, all the while nattering under her breath like a nanny goat.

Eomer leaned out over the balcony's railing, the silvery stone cool under his hand, gaze sweeping the garden below. "Keep your voice down, woman!" he snapped. The wind was warm and fresh with the smells of summer, whipping his hair in his face, the touch of it like heaven on his on the back of his sweaty neck.

"How did you get up here anyway?"

He hooked a thumb in the direction of the trellis. "Climbed up that."

She snorted haughtily. "Well! I hope you don't expect me to climb down that thing in this dress and these shoes!"

"No…" he said deliberately, damping down any residual anger in lieu of escsape, "I don't expect it. See that bush?"

Loti did as he did, leaning over the railing, graceful eyebrows raised. "Yes…" she began slowly.

"Good." And with one fluid sweep, Eomer caught Loti behind the legs, swirling her into his arms in a swish of satin.

She goggled at him wide eyed as a toad as he held her out over the railing, an offering to the inky dark below.

"No!" She shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no! Don't you dare!"

"Oh, yes," he smiled, and let go.

XXX

Loti waited with growing impatience inside the tent, puttering around mindlessly to keep herself occupied while waiting for Eomer to return. No doubt about it, she was in for it now!

A quarter hour before, he'd ushered her through the flaps of his tent with an acrimonious shove, a searing blue eyed glare, several unrepeatable words and left again, muttering, presumably to fortify the camp in the event that Izz al Din should decide to retaliate. Which he would. Al Din would know his attacker and would seek revenge, of that both Eomer and Loti were certain. It was the Haradrim way of life, an eye for an eye and all that, elevated to a bloody and brutal form of art.

All the candles and the brazier were burning, turning the canvas tent into a burning coal against the pitch black night. Even the shorter, squatter candles in the candelabra overhead were lit, recklessly dripping expensive beeswax down their sides, bending over and threatening to go out as a gust of sea scented wind blew in, rattling the cast iron fixture above.

What was taking him so long? He was delaying, possibly on purpose; making her wait like a child, letting her think about what she'd done before issuing punishment. Anxious, she'd nibbled one nail down to shreds, rearranged a cup of goose quills, stacked all of the papers on her desk into neat little piles, all evenly spaced and perfectly aligned.

The skin of her arms was freezing, cold as if touched by winter. She lowered her bottom gently on to the seat of her chair, chafing her arms briskly. The bush she'd been so rudely dropped into wasn't a thorny one, but her back and legs were nicked and scratched from all the tiny little branches, her hair snagged and her backside felt as if it had become a pin cushion. Full of nervous energy, her teeth began to chatter, her muscles twitch and shiver. A few minutes later, she stood up again.

In the distance, the horses that had been turned out to pasture whinnied; the nervous squeal heard miles away. There was a voice then, close at hand, it's low, throaty tones—usually soft—upraised in an unfriendly way, barking orders, giving a group of young men who mistakenly thought their day's work done, a tongue lashing like she'd never heard before.

If Eomer had been this enraged on the ride home, and he was, he'd done an excellent job of keeping it in check.

The chastening stopped, followed by the bumping of bodies and the flurry of feet shuffling in the dirt, trying like mad to get away. A second later, the long sure stride of expensive calvary boots thudded on the dirt of the dooryard.

Her spine turned suddenly to rubber, flimsy and insubstantial. If there had have been a shadow convenient to hand, she would have dived for it, choosing cowardliness to the wrath of the approaching man.

The tent stretched in reaction to Eomer's entrance, billowing upward, and the wooden support poles creaked under the strain, a few wind whipped curls of sand chasing in after him. It was getting nasty outside.

And it was about to get nasty inside, too.

Charging in, head down like a bull, Eomer completely ignored her. Banging and clashing came from the far side of the room as Eomer disarmed, removing secreted knives and daggers from his person like a magician, slamming them down on the desk, dropping his sword and sword belt carelessly onto the ground, a thing he almost never did to that most reverent of objects. Reaching for the water bucket, he slammed that down on top of the desk, too, with a loud thud; its contents slashing over the paper strewn wooden surface, still deliberately ignoring her. He then craned his neck into a wholly uncomfortable looking position, the long sun brown throat burnished with more than just sunburn. Similar to most men unaccustomed to wearing formal attire, he found the idea entirely barbaric, and struggled to extricate himself, finding it difficult to undo the very small hoods at the throat of the high collared under tunic with his very large fingers.

What price the cost of being seen as civilized, Loti asked herself, wanting, irrationally, to laugh, watching as the hooks sprang free under his persistent twisting, revealing a few of his curly, light brown chest hairs. Evidently, for Eomer, the price was astronomical.

Unencumbered finally, he leaned both arms over the rim of the bucket, weary, looking like a man who'd just lost his week's wages gambling, abstractedly scooping water with one hand, splashing his face, decanting it down the back of his neck, massaging the tension there. Damp with perspiration at the roots, several strands of his sandy colored hair drooped into the water and his beard, dark with wet now, dripped as he stared tiredly into the bucket's depths, seeing nothing. His expression had changed from something like irritation or anger into what could best be described as dejection. Worn, worried, drained by the events of the evening, in the red-orange light of the candles, that formidably chiseled face seemed gaunt, the skin pulled tight as the hide of a drum over the crests of cheeks and that classically high forehead. He looked far older than his twenty odd years. His hadn't been an easy life and wasn't likely to get any easier.

She'd done this to him.

That thing—that feeling—she'd thought long dead well up again, igniting in her belly, spreading around her heart; she could feel it glowing there as if a tiny candle burned beneath her heart. That feeling…part of it was pity, she knew, but part of it was something more, more than mere concern, more than just compassion. But what it was _exactly_, she didn't yet know.

It was a pity, really, that he had no one with whom to share his troubles.

With that need to fix things that all women have, her instincts told her to close the space between them, smooth the hair back from his face, give him the comfort he could not give himself and at the same time, ease some of the hurt that seeing him like this did to her own heart. But that was impossible. He might look subdued and injured now, but Eomer was as unpredictable as a wild animal in certain states of mind; the stepped on kitten could change to a mauling lion in the blink of an eye.

Evidently, Eomer wasn't going to be the first to speak, and both the stress of the encounter and the silence between them was gnawing at her belly.

"Were…you able to see to everything? Will everyone be alright?" she ventured shakily.

Nothing.

"Who are they? The woman and the boy?"

No answer.

"Where did they come from?"

Still nothing, except the swish of a hand through the bucket and the dribble of water.

"What are they doing here?"

Still silence.

Finally, not knowing what else to say or do, Loti heaved a martyred sigh, and threw up her hands, admitting defeat. "Fine. I'm sorry." It sounded weak, though, even to her own ears and not very apologetic.

Eomer still did not respond, or even attempt to acknowledge her presence.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" she wondered, cautiously, unable to bear the tension that was strung between them like a steel wire. Her heart was beating fast, her chest filled with the fluttering of hummingbird's wings. If she wanted to, she could probably fly right out of there, up and out the smoke hole in the top of the tent.

Eomer was never a good one for hiding his feelings. Even when he clammed up like a—well, like a clam, everything he felt showed in those expressive blue eyes. The eyes, reddened though they were, regarded her now under heavy brows, the pinched line between making it clear he wasn't happy about having his thoughts interrupted. Other than that, he was as still as water in a glass.

Had he been another man, say, Eothain or Wolf, that kind of calm demeanor might simply be mistaken for self control. In Eomer, Loti decided, watching him rake wet hands through his hair and reach for a square of linen to towel his face, such fettered emotion only warned of the reckoning that was to follow.

Tousled, the leonine head, startling in its resemblance, emerged from beneath the towel. The control remained as he began to speak…temporarily.

"I would never condone the beating of women," his voice rose in volume, crescendoing into a roar that rang inside the tent. Up until then she didn't even know cotton canvas could ring! "But, by the gods, I know now why men do it!"

He took one breath, then two, trying desperately to hold on to the remaining shreds of his hard won self control and failed in epically berserk style. Using an open hand he stuck the side of the bucket, sending it flying off the desk. Then, in the firm grip of a furious rage, one sweeping motion of his arms sent everything on top of the desk crashing to the ground. Books tumbled and bounced, papers fluttered, the ink pot cracked and oozed like black blood across the trampled earth and the candlestick lie broken in two like a pottery body, its candle's flame hissing as it was extinguished by the water logged ground.

And for the first time since meeting Eomer, Loti took a step backward, afraid.

"Woman! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"What I've done!" she repeated, piqued, "I haven't done anything! What about what you've done?"

He advanced, rounding the desk after her. "Don't you try to turn this around on me! You think I don't know what you were two were doing when I showed up?"

Loti stiffened, her backbone suddenly infused with steel. "Why— You big asshole! How dare you-?"

Too fast for her to react, his hands came out, fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arm as he leaned down the nearly fourteen inches difference in their heights so they were practically nose to nose. "Me? An asshole! And what does that make you, you slut!"

She gasped in outrage, sputtering, "Why you…you, you… you—whoreson!"

"Bitch!"

Face clenched like a fist, she spat out the only thing that came to mind. "Cunt chaser!"

"Cu—" the word broke off with a breathy sort of sound. When he spoke again it was through clenched teeth, growling, with only his lips moving. "So you'll deny it then? Lie to my face, tell me you weren't doing what I saw? I know what it looks like," he jeered, "I've done it often enough."

Knowing something as fact and imagining it are two things, but, deep in the backs of those blackened eyes, Eomer didn't need help doing either.

"So what if I was!" she shouted and with a one firm pull, wrenched loose her arm. "I didn't need you to rescue me. I was taking care of myself long before _you_ came along!"

"So you're plain ungrateful, then."

"Ungrateful!" Her mouth hung open. "Ungrateful? You don't really care about me at all, do you? You came back for me because you need someone to copy you letters and code your messages, make over you when you're sick and chase off your whores, didn't you! You're the master and I'm just the servant, you make that perfectly clear from the beginning," she ended scornfully. Loti wasn't really sure that she actually believed this series of statements, but Valar! she wanted to hurt him!

Hurt him she must have, because Eomer drew himself up straight, expression blank as the canvas walls surrounding them. "And you think the needs of the one cuts out the needs of the other?"

She didn't answer, but kept on talking, her anger at his dunderheadedness roiling over like a pot of boiling milk. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You stole from him, Eomer. And insulted him! He bought me from you, I was his property!"

"And I bought you back!" he interrupted, roaring.

"Well, I doubt he'll see it that way!" she flung back, remembering her last glimpse of Izz al Din, slack faced, with only the whites of his eyes showing under slitted lids…holding the glint of gold in his hand. "This isn't the Mark, Eomer. Maybe there you show mercy to thieves, but here…" she waved a hand in the direction she thought was south and snorted bitterly.

Eomer backed up a step, looking insulted and sneered, lacing his words with contempt. "Is that what you want then? To go back to _him_?"

With a derisive noise like tearing paper, Loti said, "No, of course not, you idiot, don't be silly."

"Then what would you have me do? Come back here and wait? Go on with my life; put you out of my mind like you'd never existed. Pretend that everything was fine? That I wasn't wondering day after day whether you were alive or dead or starving." His demeanor was calm, his eyes and words, intense. "Do you think I could just stand by and let you be abused or beaten or raped knowing I could have stopped it?"

"You act as if I've never been forced to do something I didn't want to before," she snorted.

His fury flushed face went suddenly pale and he swallowed, the long muscles of his throat working, trying to swallow that bitter bite of reality before a tide of angry red washed once more from chest to forehead.

He had a nasty looking wheel over the brow of one eye, swollen and discolored, and a small cut in the corner of his mouth was bleeding, smearing his teeth slightly with red. What had Eomer been doing? Fighting?

"Yes! Yes, I think you have! That's the point, isn't it? You think that no one needs you? You think that _I _don't need you?" Eomer continued on, the initial shot of rage increasingly replaced by tongue tangling reason, gesticulating as he spoke. "Didn't you see that," he waved in the neck, shoulder, chest area, "thing? That…tattoo?"

Yes, of course she had. It was the mark of the Cult of Sauron and she told him so.

"Mmhmm. Then you know that the worship of their Dark Lord isn't all they do. Faramir says they seek to destroy all light, all beauty and the vessel in which it's held in order to please their master—even when defeated evil still lurks, woman, remember that. They both fear and hate the Elves because an elf has something a man doesn't. Obviously!" He flung out a hand, gaze fixed fiercely on her face. Restless and twitchy, he walked around in a little circle, hands on his hips.

Loti heard the faint implication and clicked her tongue. "Oh, how ridiculous! I wish you'd stop looking for something that isn't there!"

"I'm not one of the Northmen or the Eotheod, either, but their blood still runs in me, as does the blood of the men of Nuemenor. You—the blood of the Elves is in you, no matter how many generations you might be removed from it. Anybody can see it; it's as plain as the mark on your face. It's in the way you take care of others." As though he held a knife, his wrist twisted and flicked. "You can't just cut that part out of you like it was a sore no more than I can cut out the Nuemenorian part. The difference between us, Loti, is that I chose to accept those parts of me that I resent."

Loti mimicked one of Eomer's throaty noises of disapprobation and started for the door. Bearing down on her like a thundercloud, Eomer clapped a hand around her arm and pulled her close, lowering big and ferocious, insistent that she listen now matter what her feelings to the contrary.

"Now you listen to me, woman. You're still not getting it." His voice was level, if his words were not. "These men, these cowards that hurt you, they tried to destroy you once before by sending you to kill me. They failed. Then. You heard what those men in the hall said; they're looking for you. Spies are everywhere; you of all people know that. Pretty soon someone is going to put two and two together and realize that the girl who was with me tonight and the girl who lives in the Rohirrim camp are one and the same—that the girl who was sent to kill me is now working for me. Once they realize who you are, they'll send someone to finish the job, the one I couldn't do." He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, see the sweat stippling his skin through the open collar of his shirt, glistening amid the curly blonde hairs of his chest. She felt like a stone falling through water, heavy and helpless, though she knew she was not. "You'll never be safe. They'll never stop looking for you and you'll never be able to hide from them. They will hunt you until they find you. And then, they will kill you."

Saliva pooled in her mouth and Loti swallowed, almost gulping, leaning backwards, trying to disengage the arm. "You're trying to scare me."

"You're fucking right; I'm trying to scare you! Have you never heard the tale of Celebrian?" he bellowed, flinging away her arm.

He prowled around the open space in the center of the tent, pacing like some sort of big cat behind the bars of its artificial home. Fingers furrowed through the sun streaked locks as he literally tore at his hair. "You are a stupid, stupid woman! The man is a fucking freebooter! What if you couldn't get away, huh? What if they'd figured out who you were? Fucking al Din has no morals, no scruples. The man's the greediest son of a bitch I've ever seen. He'd never miss an opportunity to make money. If you were lucky, once he was done with you, he'd have sold you, shipped you off somewhere never to return just to spite me! Or sell you back to this Ar-Gharzwan cunt. You could be dead or hurt, a slave, sold into some fucker's whorehouse and I'd never know where you are or even where to start looking!" A muscle in his cheek twitched and he inhaled fiercely. "How in Eru's name can I keep you safe unless you trust me. My duty is to protect you!" His deep baritone voice had risen, increasing in volume with every sentence and he gestured now with both hands, arrowing into his heart. "I'm sworn to protect you!"

"And who will protect you?" she exclaimed in a clear, loud voice. "Answer that, you selfish prick! You want to protect me and, no, I won't lie, I want you to do it. But how _can_ you do it, if you're dead? Somewhere in that rock hard head of yours, you must know that your death will mean mine, too! And what about your people? How can you serve them, protect them if you're dead." There was a large spot growing in her throat, choking and sore. What was it about Eomer that made her simultaneously so angry she wanted to stab him through the heart with the nearest sharp object and fall weeping into his arms? "Why can't _you _trust _me_ to know what's best? Why can't you see that going with him was the only thing I could think of, the only way to be sure you made it out alive? I was the price of your freedom, Eomer. I know the risks better than anyone. Or are you just mad because I hurt your pride by taking away your chance to be heroic? You're such a pig headed, selfish…" her face screwed up, searching for an insult, "Man! Always worried about your own pride! I'll feel sorry for the poor woman you marry!"

Eomer ran his hands through his hair again and gave one of those laughs that people at the end of their rope make. "My pride? You think I did this out of pride?" There was a smile on his face, and he was half laughing, but his words were anything but pleasant. "I risked my life, and yours, to save the lives of, if not my own people, then Aragorn and Faramir's people, maybe one day my own nephew's people, and you think I did it for the glory?" His voice took on a note of condescension. "Now I have to write to Faramir and tell him I have nothing; that we know as much now as we did this morning or six months ago. I still don't know where the black powder's being made, or who's making it. I have no shipping dockets, no names of buyers or sellers, no contracts, no correspondence, no solid proof that al Din has ties to any of it." He went on, positively roaring by this time and stabbing a vicious finger at her as he spoke. "Not only do I have nothing, but I have to tell that fucking Council that I disobeyed a direct order to not engage the enemy and that I probably started a second War of Wrath by breaking into the man's office and setting it on fire! We're not finished here!"

Loti, who'd been about the stomp out the door, unexcused, in a flash of light purple silk, turned back, the flap of heavy tent canvas still clutched in her hand. "What do you mean we have nothing? Of course we do."

The brow over the unmarred eye tilted and narrowed suspiciously. "How…?" He took one step forward. "It all burned up."

She felt the corners of her lips draw up, along with one eyebrow, partly amusement at his manner, partly the savoring of knowledge he was not party to. "I'm a spy, Eomer. Those who don't observe usually don't last too long."

The features of Eomer's face opened, widening with dawning realization, blazing like the morning sun. He didn't have the papers, per say, but he did have the next best thing. He had _her_.

His startlement didn't last long, once again becoming stone faced as a sun struck troll.

"Why didn't you mention this before?" he wanted to know, grinding his teeth.

Loti lifted her dainty little nose an inch as she imagined ladies of the court would do when forced to deal with boorish, unreasonable men. "You didn't ask."

It was the wrong thing to say.

"I didn't ask," he said and the lips over those teeth compressed, bloodless under the pressure. The broad shoulders rose, fell, and the deep sprung rib cage expanded once. "Write it down."

"What? Now?" Loti cried.

"Yes. Now." Eomer crossed the distance between them and was now steering her in an ungentle fashion by the arm, around behind her desk. "Write it down!" he yelled, not caring who heard them arguing, then, whirling, marched back to his desk, caught up his sword and re-sheathed the dagger and a knife with movements she could only classify as brutally abrupt. "And don't leave that spot until you're finished!" he added.

He strode purposefully towards the door, only he didn't leave. Within one step of the exit, he swerved like a compass needle searching for north, heading again in her direction.

Grunts and other unintelligible vague mutterings were common forms of communication for Eomer but when he clasped her to him, making such a sound of anguish, the likes of which she'd never heard before, she stood frozen and stunned like a pillar of salt, her check pressed into the hollow of his chest. His heartbeat and his scent were strong, the latter musk mixed with the sandalwood fragrance of his toilet water, and his arms were warm and solid, a symbolic cocoon, keeping her hidden, safe from the threats of the outside world. As his oath demanded.

It was no more than a fleeting embrace and a rough one at that. Taking her by the shoulders he thrust her away and fled back in to the storm tossed night, not once even looking her in the eye.

The tent's flaps bellied in, the flap ties floating in mid air like tendrils of seaweed under water.

Dazedly, she sank onto her chair, feeling as if the seat were made of pins rather than wood.

XXX

Eothain spied his friend hiding in the black shadowed pool of a tree drinking from a stoneware bottle. If Eomer thought he was hiding, he was wrong. He was almost seven feet tall; hard to disguise that kind of height and that wild, honey colored hair even here amongst his own people.

Eomer was no more that a black blotch, a dark amorphous outline against the other lighter black blotches of the camp, but Eothain saw the bottle rise, tilt. What was he drinking?

Whiskey—he could smell that spicy liquid fire from here. The buggerer was his own best customer sometimes.

Well…Eothain supposed he couldn't blame the man. He'd heard the two of them going at it hammer and tongs. Shit, everyone had! Women, in general, did that to men—drove them to drink. Arguing with them was like committing suicide very slowly by scooping out your innards one spoonful at a time. With a very small spoon. Gods! You just wish you'd hurry up and die so you could go back to doing something else. Although, often times, he wondered how the poor girl put up with hot eyed, bad tempered, foul mouthed, skirt chasing, hard drinking son of a mule.

He should probably leave the man to himself. Eomer would be ornery, sullen, and razor tongued. Probably should…

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Eothain licked dry lips, excited over the prospect of juicy gossip, a currency sometimes more useful than money.

He didn't expect a greeting and didn't offer any of his own—Eomer would speak when he was ready—deciding, instead, to slouch back against the trunk of the tree, wiggling back and forth to scratch an unreachable itch. The bottle suddenly appeared in front of him, stretched out in greeting over Eomer's right shoulder. Graciously accepting it, Eothain gulped, the contents sloshing musically. No self respecting Rohirric man would ever cough, grimace, or complain about the quality of the drink, but this stuff could polish steel! Handing it back, Eomer drank again and they stood companionably, listening to distant thunder rolling across the sandy prairie, snapping canvas and the rustle of leaves overhead. Lightning lit up the sky, white as a sheet of bleached muslin. He hoped they wouldn't get struck standing here under the tree…

Eothain thought the night had a queer smell to it, like earthworms and damp sand. Fuck. As long as the sand stayed out of his eyes, ears, nose and the crack of his ass, it could smell like rotting pig shit for all he cared.

Some distance away, Eothain caught movement out of the corner of his eye, the flash of skirts and unfamiliar speech. Boy and mother each had a bucket; returning from getting water, he presumed. The boy seemed robust enough, a stout, strong lad, a lot like Eothain's own boys, but the woman… She was clearly in ill health, slightly bent in the shoulders, face lined with age, although he'd bet she was younger than she looked, and scrawny, well past the point of mere thinness. Emaciated was more like it, hide covering bone with no fat or muscle underneath to give the skeleton shape and knobby, protruding joints. Either she was starving or suffering from one of those nasty wasting diseases. Most likely the latter; a cancer, consumption, sugar sickness, or maybe an impaction of the liver.

"Go ahead," Eomer sighed, resignedly. "Ask."

Eomer took back the whiskey bottle.

"If you're planning on taking that one as a mistress I'd say I didn't know you as well as I thought. I thought you always liked the fat ones with big tits?"

The other man's head angled around slightly, shooting Eothain a dirty look. "Mmhmm," he said, unamused.

"What are you gonna do with the boy?" he inquired.

Eomer shrugged broad shoulders. "I don't know yet."

"And the woman. She's clearly sick. She can't stay here."

"Mmm. Believe me I didn't know it at the time. Couldn't just leave her there though, could I? Boy needs his mother. I guess she'll have to go north."

"Mmm," Eothain mirrored the noise, feeling, as was Eomer, the same small pang in his heart at the mention of lost mothers.

This time it was Eothain who sighed. If they were determined to be maudlin, then they might as well have it all out.

He pointed in the direction of woman and boy, who had come back to help his exhausted mother with the buckets. "You're one of the good ones, cock, but how many times have you done this," he began in a voice he might use to soothe fractious horses. "A dozen times at least. You can't save them all, you know."

Eomer was physically earthbound, but his gaze was distant, fixed on the sky, as if searching for those missing pieces of who he was—searching for those who'd left him behind—hoping to find them somewhere in the heavens. "I know," he admitted softly, "But I can try."

"Look," Eothain started to say reasonably, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, "I know that—" But this was one subject with which Eomer was completely unreasonable.

Like a stepped on snake, Eomer rounded on his oldest and best friend, glaring. "No, you don't. You don't know anything about it."

Meeting that glare, Eothain chuckled, the taste of it bitter, sour in his mouth, the raw burn of reality a thousand times worse than that of the whiskey. "Oh, I don't, huh?"

The look of righteous indignation slowly faded from Eomer's face. He rested one shoulder against the gnarly bark of the tree. "Mmm. So you do," he said and amiably handed over the bottle.

"Mmm."

"Mmhmm."

This being the male equivalent of an apology; neither having to admit that he did anything wrong.

Eothain took a sip from the bottle and coughed suddenly, spitting spirits all down the front of his armored breastplate. "Good gods, man. What in Bema's name happened to you? You look like you got bashed in the face with a rolling pin! I hope the other guy looks as bad."

Eomer joked, "Think it detracts from my good looks?" indicating the welt over his eye,

"If anything, it helps!"

"Wanna know all the gory details?"

Eomer knew damn well he wanted to know and was just dangling the possibility out there like bait on a string. "Gah! Do I even have to ask?"

"Buy me a drink and I'll tell you all about it." A bitty light sprang up in Eomer's eye, twinkling. Having known the big man literally all of his life, Eothain recognized it as the betokening for potential chicanery and overindulgence.

"You want to go crawling? Now?" Eothain was a little surprised.

"It's going to rain hammers and nails. No fool is going to send men out for battle in this and al Din's no fool."

Another bellow of thunder tumbled through the air, booming in echoes.

Casting a thought back to the battle at Helm's Deep, Eothain knew Eomer was right—a commander would never send his men out to fight in inclement weather unless it gave them a tactical advantage—but he must have looked less than enthused about Eomer's desire to go drinking.

"Look, cuck," Eomer explained, slowing to a stop, "Since this morning I've been threatened, run off, beat up, embarrassed, betrayed, yelled at, and nearly bitten in the sac by a fucking snake. I'm hot, hungry, thirsty, tired, and I've had about a dozen cockstands at least. My balls are as blue as my eyes are. All I want right now is to relax, get drunk and lay in a soft bed with a warm body." He chucked Eothain's shoulder, grinning. "Humor an old boy, eh?"

Eomer started to walk off, but stopped after a few steps, noticing his friend wasn't following, the grin quickly disappearing from his sun bronzed countenance.

"What's wrong?" Eomer frowned.

"What makes you think I think that's a good time?"

"You never had a problem with it before?" observed Eomer, one eye pinched.

He came to stand next to Eomer, hands held out slightly from his sides in a gesture that was half apology, half consternation. How to explain what he felt to a man who'd never felt what he felt? They stood face to face but they may as well have been miles apart in terms of this discussion.

"I'm a month's ride from my wife and my family. I miss them. I miss my wife's bed. Sitting in a taproom all night while you go whoring isn't my idea of a good time right now."

Eomer blinked, like he was trying to interpret the gibberish of a foreign language. "Eothain, when's the last time you were with a woman other than your wife?"

The corner of Eothain's mouth tucked back, one bushy brow folding over a single eye like Eomer should know the answer to that question, at least!

He did. A hot red discolored Eomer's skin from neck to forehead and he grunted like a bull that had trouble shitting.

"I hope you're not suggesting that I fool around on my wife?" Eothain teased in mock horror, slapping a hand over his heart and staggering backwards a little. Whenever possible, he liked to embarrass his friend and ease some of that asshole clenching dourness.

"No, of course not," he retorted and paused, shifting moodily, unable to look him in the eye. "But...ghaw…can't I be lonely, too."

It was the most incongruous thing to say; Eomer, lonely, especially in these times, when women practically threw themselves at his head, if not because of his, admittedly, fine looks or body, then because they fancied him dashing and heroic. Or rich and powerful.

Eothain actually laughed. "Oh, yah, I suppose you're allowed. It does feel good doesn't it? When the bitch's juicy in your hand…when you're giving it to her. She claws at your back and hammers her heels into your ass, telling you there's never been another one like you. Yeah," he suspired dreamily, closing his eyes briefly, reliving the last of his wife's caresses in his mind, "it feels real good when you unload in her. And then after, you feel like fifteen year old boy again and she was your very first fuck. But then you get up and get dressed and go home and what you had there is gone and you're lonely all over again."

"Mmhmm. And was that the way of it with you and—"

He didn't pretend ignorance and was surprised Eomer was demanding to know after all these years. It was a topic which had never been broached before.

"No, it wasn't like that at all with her. Gods, man, how can you even ask me that. You make it sound like I didn't have respect for her." He watched his shuffling feet, uncomfortable under Eomer's intense blue glare, boot heels digging long furrows in the dirt. "She gave me something…after all that. Comfort? I don't know…" This time though, it was Eomer who looked away. He saw the reflection of his own grief echoed in Eomer's eyes. Was he also thinking of lost mothers? Eothain wasn't sure about Eomer, but his own sense of loss had never entirely gone away. He still grieved everyday—for the loss of a mother…and for another lost, as well. "Anyway…what I meant to say is that it's different when it's your own woman, one you care for, not one you found and fucked and forgot about. You'll never be lonely with her. You don't feel lost or empty when she's there. It's like…" marshalling his words, he scratched at his beard, "she fills up all your holes and suddenly you're not leaking anymore. And then, when you rouse her…"

It was an odd subject for two grown men to be discussing, yes, slightly weird like his guts were being wrung out like a rag, but good too in a liberating way. It was something a father should have talked about with his son when the son came of age. But Eomer's father had died long before the boy had even taken his first wench to bed, his uncle, busy with other priorities, and Theodred, who all the boys in Edoras admired and aspired to be like, had not been the best man to emulate. Theo had lived for three things: whiskey, women, and war, and not always in that order.

"You make it sound like I've never brought a girl to me before," Eomer said, his raspy husk of a voice wry.

"Oh, I know you have. I've heard you going at it often enough. But she's not yours, is she? It's different with a woman you love. To watch her face as she comes to you, to listen to her beg for you, feel those slippery muscles squeeze around your cock, hold her under you as she shakes with what you've just given her…it makes you want to burst. And sometimes, you do! You don't just want to take your own pleasure, you want to give it back to her as well. It's a strange thing for a man, pleasure. It's selfish and selfless all at the same time. You want to blow yourself in her so bad your balls ache with it, but if you held out just a little longer and waited for her, you'd both feel like you'd died and woke up in paradise." Eothain shifted, relaxing in both body and spirit. "Haven't you ever with anybody you cared about?"

They exchanged the bottle.

Eomer's shrug was more like that of a man fending off mosquitos buzzing around his ears than any sort of admission. "Some of them I liked well enough…"

"Mmhmm," Eothain put in so Eomer needn't finish his thought and went on with some more of his own. "Well, if ever you find that one woman someday, and if you're lucky, your seed will quicken and her belly will grow fat with your son. Oh, she'll complain that she doesn't have ankles anymore and that she can't see her feet and that her tits hurt and her ass is too big, but to you… to you she's the most beautiful woman the world has ever known. When you lie together and she takes you inside her, with the child between you, it's like your loving them both at the same time. And after, you lay there in bed, holding both your woman and your baby in your arms, and, by fuck!, Eomer, you feel like the master of the universe. You'll never feel so much a man."

Eomer took another drink, still listening, mute but nonetheless attentive.

Eothain shrugged, at a lost for eloquent words. Fatherhood was so much less glamorous than motherhood. "Then the baby's born and it's you who gets to turn that boy into a man. You get to teach him all the things your father taught you—how to piss standing up, ride a horse, how to hunt, how to use a sword. You'll get to watch him woo his first girl, ride with him to his first battle, see him get married and hold his own son." He shook his head, still unable to explain it. "Fuck, you'll never feel so proud, not even in victory in battle."

Exactly the opposite of his friend in terms of temperament and personality, Eothain gripped Eomer's shoulders suddenly, shaking him in an effort to pop to bubble of sentimentality that had swallowed them whole. It succeeded. Eomer's mouth slanted sideways and he chuckled, huffing loudly through his nose.

"That's what a woman does, Eomer!" he said, infusing his words with the fervor and fierce joy he himself had experienced. "That's why men like us get married! Because she makes kings out of us all. She give us what we can't give ourselves—love, understanding, a home, a family… a warm bed in the middle of winter…" He waggled his eyebrows obscenely.

"You make it sound so easy," Eomer said, holding out the bottle.

"It is easy," he said, "With the right woman," and glugged, pulling it back from his mouth with an explosive sigh. "You know, my father used to say that Eru made men and women together because a man without a woman wasn't a whole man; she was the other half of him. Then, if he was mad at my mother he'd say something like, "If the Iluvatar had ever been married, he'd never created the nagging wee creatures. They do naught but give a man grief and gray hair." They both chuckled at that. Eothain's father had been a wise and educated man with a quick wit and excellent sense of humor who had been unfailingly faithful to his wife. "Now, when I think about it, I'm sure he was right. When we become men, we leave our mothers but always we go back to _'her'_. She gives us all of herself as she did when we were babes, cares for us without condition. She puts our head to her breasts and feeds us with her love, brings us to life, takes us into her and makes us feel as if we've been reborn. Ah!...women! Soft and warm as rabbit fur, but hard as bone underneath. It's a wonder they can even stand us at all," he added off handedly.

"I never knew you were so passionate about fornication," Eomer said, amused.

He paused in the process of lifting the bottle to his lips again. His breath whistled across the opening. "Ah, well, I consider myself an expert in the art of fornication, and I flatter myself."

Opening his mouth slightly, Eomer hesitated, closed his mouth, frowned, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Still harboring some obvious reservations, he decided to speak. "And what happens if she dies?"

Eothain set a hand on the big man's shoulder, kingly and strong, capable of bearing so many burdens.

"Then you learn to love again," he told him, "and appreciate her all the more for it."

Lightning bloomed in the sky overhead and its companion grumbled somewhere off to the west.

"Come on, cock," urged Eothain, taking Eomer by the shoulder again and guiding him onto the path, "If I have to die, I'd rather it be in my wife's bed than struck by lightning. Phew! You're reeking alright, but it's not of lust! I thought you had a wash today?"

"I did, but that—" here he moaned something about Loti in an uncomplimentary way, "made me sweat right through my shirt."

The flames in the torches lighting the trail lashed to and fro in the wind and it lifted the hair from the nape of Eothain's neck, cooling as a douse of iced water.

"I see. Well, look, cock, all I'm trying to say is be careful. You don't know who your actions might hurt. Winning back a woman's trust is the hardest thing you'll ever have to do."

A pair of sandy brows drew together on the other man's face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Eothain back pedaled, blathering, but was saved from explanation by several young Riders advancing towards them on some errand, clashing and banging. Nudged off the path, the two friends waited patiently between a couple of tents, well staked against the wind, allowing the younger men to pass, nodding salutes and muttering polite greetings of "Sir" to Eomer as they went. Unsmiling, Eomer nodded in return.

With the group noisily marching along, Eothain took a step forward, about to head off back down the trail, when Eomer pressed a hand to his chest, rocking him back into place.

"How—How do I know?"

"Boy, if you have to ask that, then she's not the one!" Eothain couldn't help but cackle, the sound of it lost in the booming of the wind and the heave of tent canvas. He squinched one eye shut as little particles of wind borne sand stung his cheeks.

"No… I know that. I mean…" His friend looked uncertain and fidgety, "How do I know she doesn't just want me for my money or my title?"

_Ah, so that was it_. Or part of it anyway. It was a legitimate question he supposed…

Every once in a while, not often, but occasionally, little tunnels of self doubt would worm their way through Eomer's wall of confidence weakening its structural integrity before the man could plug them up again. In time possibly, Eomer would adjust to his new role, his new title, his new responsibilities. Eothain was well acquainted with the fact that Eomer would never be entirely comfortable being called 'King'. He was a man born and raised to lead, but who had never desired power solely for himself. And that kind of man deserved honesty, if nothing else.

Everyone was entitled to their fears and emotional insecurities, he decided, even reluctant monarchs.

Eothain frowned deeply, lines etching his forehead and he pushed his lips in and out as an aid to thought.

"Been thinking about it a lot lately, have you? Marriage, I mean."

"No… but I've been thinking about it," he answered with mild defensiveness.

"Hmm, well, for you there's an easy answer to that question. She'll be the one who gives you everything of herself and asks for nothing in return, won't she? Because that, my friend, is what love really is. If you don't love her, Eomer, don't marry her or you'll be miserable the rest of your life."

Eomer seemed to be absorbing this profound bit of advice and liking it because his head was bobbing in that Eomer-ical way of his, a sort of barely moving nod. Failing to hide a smile, he joked dryly, "You should put all this advice down for posterity. Call it Women for Dummies."

"Hey! Maybe I will. I'll call the first chapter 'Don't stick your prick where it's not wanted'. Come on, cock, ain't nothing to do now but get drunk and take Aric's money playing dice." Eothain winked conspiratorially and put his arm around his childhood friend, feeling, as he sometimes did, like an older, wiser brother, steering him in what he hoped was the right direction. "I got a good one for ya, I just heard it the other day. A dwarf, a hobbit and a queer wizard walk into a tavern…"

XXX

His head was pounding like the skin of a very reverberant, very big drum and he'd swear he was about three feet from the sun, its rays lancing through his closed eyelids, the needle-like points jabbing all the way into his skull over and over and over again. Shit. Had he fallen asleep outside on the ground? He tried re-attuning his senses, or what was left of them, wiggling them like an insect's antennae. No, there was definitely something soft underneath him, so he wasn't lying on the ground. Gods, maybe he was dead, then he wouldn't have to suffer a thudding head and a heaving, rotting stomach the rest of the day. But, no, if he was feeling, and he was, badly, then most likely, he was not dead.

A cloud moved overhead, dark and impenetrable, blotting out the sun's deadly knife attack on his eyes and brain. Was it going to rain again? Still not completely convinced he wasn't outside, he decided if he was indeed still alive that he'd better somehow slither his sorry ass inside if he didn't want to get wet, but his arms and legs didn't seem to be working properly. They felt like skins of water, heavy, unbalanced and jelly-ish. Then, as suddenly as the cloud appeared, it moved off again. He groaned, sounding exactly like a bloated, dead pig that had been stepped on, a hatchet of sunlight cleaving his skull right between his eyes.

The cloud came back…and it spoke. He should find that strange, but didn't, liking the clear soft tone of it—like a lullaby, soothing his rumpled mind.

The world around him seemed to be spinning, or, maybe, he was the one spinning.

Suddenly, he didn't feel very good.

"Oh, gods," said the cloud right before he threw up.

XXX

The cloud disappeared for sometime, or maybe he'd just fallen back to sleep and lost track of time.

He'd determined in the interim that it was a female cloud. Somewhere in the shambled remains of his mind he found the idea of male and female clouds copulating and making little baby clouds funny and he giggled.

"Eomer."

The cloud knew his name. How interesting…

The cloud was helping him sit up a little bit, pressing something warm and fragrant to his lips, making him drink, laying him back down.

He decided he really must be dead, the things around him soft and feathery, the billowing mist of puffy clouds supporting him, embracing him as he was carried away from earth, towards the Mead Hall of his forefathers. It would explain the proximity of the sun. Knowing himself dead—although not knowing exactly how he'd gotten this way—liver malfunction as a result of alcohol poisoning, perhaps?—actually made him rather sad. Now, he'd never get to experience what Eothain was blabbering on about the night before. Belatedly, he realized he'd never actually made love to a woman, let alone been in love with one, and found that highly disappointing. So many things he'd never done…

The she-cloud was still there, bathing his face with cool water. He wondered what she would feel like, wondered if she would dissolve with the touching, like mist through his fingers, and determined to put out a hand. What he found was smooth and round and soft, like a cloud should be but with a nice heft, much heavier than he'd expected, like the weight of a small bag of grain in his hand. He sighed contentedly and squeezed it, happy to find something solid to hold on to, some point of anchor in this new nebulous world.

"Eomer," the cloud said sharply, disturbing his quietus. "Eomer, open your eyes, Eomer." The cloud was shaking him now and he didn't like it one bit.

He mumbled an observation he'd later retrieve from the achieves of memory as "You're very fat for a cloud."

The cloud, like his thoroughly proper grandmother, Morwen, was not amused. "Eomer," it said in tones of the deepest foreboding, "take your hands off me this instant, or I'll string you up outside and let the pigs nibble off your soft parts!"

His eyes flew open. What he'd thought was a cloud was actually Loti and what he'd mistaken for the overall feel of the cloud was, in fact, her right breast. Hastily, he let go.

Groaning like a hobbit's leaky squeezebox and squinting at the sun blaring through the canvas over head, he asked, groggily, "What time is it?" He was still slightly disoriented, but from the angle of the sun, it must be later in the day.

"Midafternoon," she confirmed, with little enthusiasm. "Sit up and drink." Loti got an arm under his shoulders, propping him up enough to drink the same darkly fragrant brew he'd tasted before, noting as he did so that for such a little thing, she was quite strong. "It'll help with the headache."

"That tastes like the underside of a privy seat," he remarked after swallowing.

"Good, that means it's strong enough. Had the pleasure of licking many privy seats, have you?" Her voice was markedly dull and acidy.

Lying back down, he squished the feather pillow under his head to get a better look at her. She was wearing the everyday kirtle and under gown, not that slinky purplish thing from last night, and her thick brown hair hung loose and unbrushed, cascading over her shoulders in a disorderly fashion like a haphazardly built bird's nest.

He, on the other hand, was wearing nothing but a sheet, the course linen smoothing over hip bones and belly, mounded outlines of his most favorite parts showing beneath.

"I know a better cure for headache than that nasty stuff."

"What?"

Patting himself about halfway down, Eomer suggested, "Lift up your skirts and sit down right here and I'll show you!"

Loti made a dismissive, "Pfft," along with a wave of the hand, indicating the curative properties of that suggestion to be less than zero and drew down the sheet, whence she began prodding him in the ribs and belly. Dark patches of bruises were already rising to the surface and he was sore, but no more than he might be if he'd been in a taproom brawl. From the way Loti was examining him, she obviously thought he'd been stepped on by a troll.

"Are you badly hurt? Do you think any of your ribs are broken?"

"No, but there might be if you keep poking around," he said, but liked the feel of her hands on him, only stopping her when he felt a stirring of his loins. That part of his anatomy was all together too healthy. "Leave off now, woman. You're tickling me."

'Hmphf'-ing at what she perceived to be lack of appreciation, Loti straightened her spine and stomped off towards her desk.

"What happened?" he asked, shifting a bit to get comfortable while at the same time trying not to joggle his head too much.

"You don't remember?"

"Do you think I'd be asking if I did?"

Harrumphing indignantly, she elaborated. "You came back at dawn, loud and drunk, pissed into the fire, thought that was funny, then stumbled in here, interrupting my work," this last part being a grievous error in judgment on his part, "then sat down at your desk, put your head down, passed out and fell out of the chair."

"Oh," he nodded, agreeing because he had to, "and, ah, how did I end up, ah…?" He'd take the answer for either in bed or naked.

"I did that," she told him, her manner stiff.

"Oh." And he felt his face flush. She knew what he had done then. Would levity help? "I didn't make any, ah, improper advances, did I?"

Gazing at him sidelong, she snorted. "If you had, I don't know how you would have fulfilled them."

Loti came back carrying a bowl, fumes of vinegar wafting before her like an incense censer, along with a small piece of toweling and plunked down a low stool next to the bed, plunking herself down on top of it. Dipping the bit of towel into the vinegar and squeezing out the excess, she scowled ferociously at his partially swollen and probably bruised face.

Tonelessly, she inquired, "How did this happen?"

"Ah! That hurts," he whined as she applied the vinegar soaked towel to the cut at the corner of his mouth.

"Tough. Talk."

"Hmm. Well, after you…left me," he shot her an accusatory glare, meeting her eye. Never one to back down, she gave the eye back to him, measure for measure. "they lead me to the stables. I saddled the horses and that's when it happened."

It wasn't that he unprepared for the attack; he just knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"I was leading the horses out of their box when they nabbed me. Got my arms behind my back." He lifted his shoulders complacently. "I didn't try to fight them."

"Of course not, why bother?" she quipped.

"It wouldn't have made a difference. I knew what they were going to do."

Eomer had smiled when Dar al Din stepped out of the knot of other men, a glinting bar of metal strapped around the knuckles of one hand. He wasn't afraid, though, having fought hand to hand for his life before and in closer quarters than this. Words were exchanged, then insults. The younger al Din hit him in the gut. Eomer, gasping, laughed, telling him his sister hit harder. Al Din's face went red as a beet, the grip on his arms tightened and a fist hit him in the side of the ribs. In an attempt to antagonize al Din, Eomer uttered a bit of vulgar Haradrim doggerel he'd picked in some local tavern amounting to something like 'I will have my horse's bloody cock take your daughter's virginity on your mother's grave.'

"You antagonized him?" Loti interjected, "Why on earth would you do that?"

"You didn't think I was just going to let him kick the crap out of me and not put up some kind of fight," he explained testily, "I did have some pride left."

Then it was on. Al Din was wailing on him, slamming his fists into Eomer's gut and ribs, drawing encouragement from the whoops and shouts of his entourage. At some point in the proceedings, he tried to knee Eomer in the stones. Reconciled to the beat down, Eomer would be damned if he would suffer this indignity on top of everything else. In no way could he, EomerKing, countenance falling to the ground at the feet of an enemy and blocked the kick by squeezing his legs together.

Gingerly, Eomer touched the swollen, tender lump at his brow bone with fingertips. "That's how I got this. He was close enough I could give him a Rohirric Kiss," seeing the puzzled and appalled expression on her face, he explained, scolding and amused, "It's not anything queer like ass buggery. I butted him in the head with my head."

As the cheiftain's son reeled backward from the blow, clutching his forehead, Eomer jerked up one knee and cracked Dar al Din's nuts, instead. He fell like a stone to the stable floor, hands jammed protectively between his legs, crumpling up like a sheet of paper and looking just as white.

"Then they threw me to the floor, too, and I curled up in a ball while a couple of them stomped on me like I was a cockroach," he mentioned breezily. "After that, they got the little whoreson up and left. They didn't mean to kill me, just rough me up a bit."

"They did that alright!" She continued dabbing at his lips with the vinegar soaked rag, its pungent scent clearing out his nasal passages and stinging like she was ministering to him with splintered glass.

The uninjured side of his mouth drew up, grinning irresistibly. "You were worried about me."

"Foolish, idiotic man," mumbled Loti.

A few moments of peace passed and he settled more comfortably into the chuff filled mattress of his camp bed, tension oozing out of muscles while he 'allowed' her to tend to him. Back home, there hadn't been any women to tend him, if or when he arrived home hurt or exhausted. His sister, maybe, but she wasn't what one would call the picture of womanly compassion. Admittedly, over the years he'd become bull headed and independent, set in his ways, used to doing things for himself. He never would have thought so before, but now that there was someone, it was nice to have her tut-tutting and doing for him while laid here. Especially nice when the one tending him had such fine, slender hands and a delicate touch. He could certainly become used to this kind of treatment.

The next time she spoke, she said, "That was a very stupid thing to do," still in that voice as flat as a cracker.

He responded by saying, "I know it was. You never should have done it. You have me worried sick," and smiled, tasting the bite of the vinegar.

Her lips pressed tightly together, suppressing retort.

After dabbing a bit more at the corner of his mouth, loosening the dried blood in the bristly hairs of his mustache, she said, "You thought I'd betrayed you."

Awkward, that's what the brief lull in conversation was.

"Yes. I did."

Relishing the opportunity, her hand rose up from her skirts, hitting him over the head with the dipper from the water bucket.

"Ow!" Eomer jerked back, rubbing at that overly abused portion of his anatomy, "What was that for?"

"For having a head like a boulder! Here, drink some more of this."

The mug of tea appeared as if by magic, brandished in front of his abruptly puckered mouth.

"I don't want any of that," he told her, trying to push it away.

"Yes, you do. Drink!"

"No, I don't!"

The brief but furious battle of wills ended when half the tea sloshed out of its mug and down the front of her skirt.

Cheeks puffed with immeasurable patience, she said, crabbily, "Now look what you've done!" and got up from the stool in an angry twirl of damp linen.

"Come back here so I can explain!" Trying to sound civil, he craned his neck around to see where she was without sloshing his pickled brains around too much.

"You're mad at me," she said bluntly, carefully setting down the blood tinged vinegar bowl on the desk.

"You don't think I should be?"

She turned jewel fired eyes on him, glowering. Gathering cranial and digestive strength, he propped himself up on one elbow, wincing only a little as all the glass cullet inside his skull changed positions. He ran the fingers of a hand through the strands of his slightly sweat dampened hair, exasperated, understanding now why married men went bald. It was from doing exactly that for twenty five or thirty years. "Wh—what do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?"

Like an owl surveying a field for mice, her head slowly swiveled around on that elegant, slender neck, eyes gone just that bit too wide and lips pressed so firmly together so they formed an upside down U.

"No. I. Don't." Which was women speak meaning 'Yes, I do, but not if you have to ask if that's what I want.'

Disgusted, he let out a moan like a squeaky wagon axel and flopped down onto the mattress.

She did come back, holding a small pot of some kind of ointment or another. He knew she wouldn't leave him, not in his current battered state and felt foolish for ever thinking she might. The flame of his heart suddenly sprang up strong and unwavering realizing now, as he hadn't the night before, that, whatever she had done, she'd done for him.

Anointing him like a Yuletide goose, she smeared the stuff with brusque efficiency in the corner of his mouth and over his bruised forehead.

"Maybe if you actually talked to me, told me about yourself, I might understand what's going on in that head of yours—why you do what you do," he said, readdressing this point of contention in their odd master/servant relationship. "Don't you trust me?"

"No."

Eomer sighed, requesting patience. "Is that no, I don't trust you or no, I'm not telling you anything."

"No, I'm not telling you anything," she replied, exerting far too much concentration on something as inconsequential as a bump to the forehead. Obviously, she was uncomfortable and did not want to discuss it. This time, though, he was not giving up.

Gently, he took hold of her wrist, placing her hand in her lap and resting his own hand on her linen clad thigh. So rarely had he ever touched her in anything but anger, Loti seemed almost imperceptibly to flinch, muscles automatically surging into a defensive posture.

Gods, was that how it was between them? Did she think him a brute, incapable of any tenderness at all? Or was this simply the way she acted when alone and vulnerable with a man?

The fingers tightened their grip a little, insistent, cajoling her with, "Look, hen, everybody needs someone to talk to."

Under his hand, her leg was thin and tough as whipcord. She was too thin and the dark circles shadowing her eyes made her young face seem haggard. This was no life for one as handsome as she.

"So. Tell me something."

Loti nibbled at her lower lip, slowly shaking her head back and forth, apprehensive.

"Alright, fine," he compromised, "What if I tell you something about me? Yes? Hmm…" Snuggling deeper into the mattress and tucking an arm behind his head, he tried thinking of something suitable, sniffing inconspicuously at his armpit in the meanwhile. "The first Yuletide after our mother died—in Edoras—I got hungry and snuck off to the kitchens to find something to eat. No one was there, so I hunted around and found a bowl full of sweat meats set out for the doings that night. I hid in the pantry stuffing myself until they were just about gone and then Cook caught me at it. Well…" he trailed off, nervously rubbing a hand over and over the long scar of his belly wound, "when you're that age, you always think you're so much smarter than you really are, but I couldn't really deny it. My hands and face were covered with sticky stuff. She wasn't really a mean woman, but she took me by the ear and hauled me off the Hall were my uncle was holding court, so to speak. Everyone could see what the trouble was. Uncle called me over to him and made me tell him what I'd done. Then he told me—" The memory was no longer funny or self deprecating and if he'd thought more about it, would have chosen not to have told it. He let his eyes drift to the bright dome of the ceiling over head, sadness haloing his heart. "He told me I was the image of my father and that he'd known my Da for a good many years before he married my mother. He said he was proud to have me as a foster son because one day I would protect the weak side of his own son in battle. He said my Da would've been very disappointed in my actions and that to honor my father's memory he would make sure I was taught right from wrong and raise me to be a proper man." Eomer rolled his head back to Loti, smiling ruefully at first and then more brightly. "Then he beat me bare assed with his belt in front of every important man in the Riddermark. And not a few of the women. I never ate sweet meats again in public until I was twenty."

By the time he was done with this narrative Loti was softly snorting and smiling, the back of one hand pressed to her mouth.

"Your turn," he prompted and as quickly as her humor was lit, it fizzled out, leaving her set-jawed and cold. "A deal's a deal."

She squirmed on the stool and took up the pot of ointment again, lazily dipping a finger. "I remember-" she started to say before stopping to clear her throat and proceed much more definitely. "I remember being a little girl on a beach somewhere. The surf was big and it was loud and the sand was white and hot. There were other people there, on the beach, laughing. They were in the water, and I remember wanting to be in the water too. Then I was running and running like little ones do and…I fell over."

The split in his lip had cracked open again and was bleeding; he could taste the salt and copper of it. Removing her finger from the ointment, she bent over his prone body, dabbling at his lip and giving him a delectable view of soft cleavage which he found somewhat distracting.

"Someone, a man, picked me up and was patting my back, saying things you say to babies. He had a nice voice, soothing, but the sun was behind him and it was so bright, I couldn't see his face. But…but I think he was my father."

She quit talking, big blue eyes narrowing as she leaned forward in a suspicious way. "Eomer, turn your head."

"Huh?" He was busy staring at her neckline.

Picking up on his tone of indifference, Loti sat back, went wrinkle faced and squiggledy lipped, pulled an almost white handkerchief from her pocket and stuffed it haphazardly into her décolletage. Eomer found this most disappointing.

"Didn't you get enough of those yesterday?"

"Never. I like tits. And women."

"In that order?"

"Not necessarily," he grinned, "Sometimes I prefer one more than the other."

"Hmphf. You just assumed I'd be fine with you…you yanking off my gown and… and—" stammered Loti, waving one hand in front of her chest.

"Making love to you?"

Her eyes opened wider and despite herself, she looked amused. "Yes. You did. Next time you should ask."

"They'll be a next time, huh? Don't give a man hope."

"You're a lout, Eomer. Quit avoiding me. Turn your head." Two fingers pinched his chin.

Her other hand was resting on the muscle of his bicep as she poised over him, looming like an overhanging rock ledge, and, well…he wanted to impress her. He flexed his arm, the muscle bulging.

Loti glanced at him, most unimpressed. "Oh, please," she drawled, rolling blue eyes.

"I see, not hard enough for ya," he teased, "Give me a second and I'll show you something much harder to touch."

"You disgust me," she said, without any inflection.

He smiled happily. "I'm moving up in the world! From loathsome to disgusting. I skipped right over appalling. You do me great honor, milady, I'm humbled."

"I'm surprised you're not saluting the entire camp right this instant!"

Eomer was not feeling particularly aroused or hungry in that way and was enjoying their banter much more than he would've a skilled hand on his stiff cock. Well, maybe that was overstating things just a little.

"No sense in getting my testicles all in a tangle if there's no one willing to untangle them for me, is there? That gets painful."

"How sensible of you." Her lips primed together impatiently. "What's on your neck?"

The return of a niggling panic made him clamp a hand down on the side of his neck. "This? Ach, it's nothing. Really!" he blurted, making a poor job of casualness, "Just a, ahm…" he scratched feebly at the side of his neck, "a bug bite."

Loti leaned back on stool, eyes creased in to slits, saying "Hmhmm," in a subtly accusatory sort of way. Then, without warning, she whisked the sheet off his body, baring him from scalp to soles.

"What the—?" Reflexively, he reached to cover himself as much out of an instinctive sense of modesty as for protection. "Ghaw, woman!"

Standing over him now, she was giving him one of her best severe looks.

"What've you got a sore on your prick?" she asked, meanly, and with a wildly gesturing hand that almost made him flinch. But it did make him hunch his shoulders a bit more. Things had gone pear shaped a little more quickly than he was used to.

"A—? No! I don't have a sore!"

"Well, come on, then, move your hands. You're acting like I've never seen it before. I'm much less impressed by your love muscle than by your arm muscles. "

He blushed the same color red as the cooked lobster he'd eaten at Aragorn's coronation feast.

_Love muscle?_

In one of the more ridiculous statements he'd ever said, he offered a self preserving, "It's not what it looks like!"

Both of her finely drawn dark eyebrows winged up like birds taking flight. "Oh, it's not, huh? Tell me, Eomer, what kind of whore was she? A vampire? It looks like she tried to suck the blood right out of you!"

She swatted at his hands, and with some reluctance, Eomer removed them.

"Alright, maybe it is what it looks like," he capitulated, muttering and scowling up at her, "But I don't think it was blood she was trying to suck out of me while she was down there."

His words made her bristle; all the bumpy pieces of her spine standing up like the hackles on a boars back. Not the most complimentary thought, but his own hackles were a bit ruffled at the moment also.

Mortified, he laid their pinned like an insect to a specimen board, turning the same dark red shade as a turkey's waddles while she rubbed the slippery oil roughly into the red-blue bruised splotch below his naval.

His penis lay there too, off to one side, large, heavy and thankfully limp, shriveled with embarrassment while she muttered things about succubi and contracting nasty diseases that would make his cock turn green and fall off.

In the event, sometime in the early hours of the morning, after tiring of dicing, at someone's suggestion, they had gone to the tavern. It was a noisy, raucous place, full of men seeking shelter from the rain inside tankards of ale and smelling of roasting meat, the sawdust that covered the floor, and sweaty men with that faint underlying scent of vomit that all taprooms had.

He, Eothain, Eoin, Wolf, the twins, Bram and Gram, Aric and Theofrid were playing cards off in a corner when he saw her across the room. She was petite, pretty, fair of skin and dark of hair and they engaged in a silent flirtation of the eyes and body for the better part of an hour before he lost her in an influx of newly arrived patrons.

A little while later, standing at the bar waiting to put in for another round of drinks, she reappeared, slipping her hand, smooth as a rose petal, into his. She didn't say anything, she didn't need to; the song of his desire, an inaudible melody, save for the woman who chose to listen closely enough.

It was one of the more subtle propositions he'd ever had, but the insinuation was abundantly clear. Eomer stared down at her, drinking in the loveliness of her complexion, pale and fresh as newly churned butter, deep brown eyes and a moist pink rosebud mouth, the same as he would a cup of whiskey. Eager and willing to please, the girl tugged on his hand but he'd hesitated, only for a second, guiltily casting a glance over her shoulder. Eothain was still at the table, his back to him, arguing over some nonsense. His reservations about having the girl were rapidly dissolving by both the drink and the first tingling sensations of arousal. Having principles or quixotically high ideals were all well and good, especially for Eothain who was happily married, but the fact remained that Eomer was a red blooded male of the species; a man was weak but the desires of the flesh were strong.

They never made it to where ever she was intended to take him; the semi-darkness of the stairwell being suitably private enough for his needs. His drunkenness had given him the strange sense of living in a watery world, as if his head were stuck in a fish bowl. This feeling was borne out when she dropped to her knees, undid the lacing of his britches and took him into her mouth, warm and wet as the night outside. She hadn't done it often, that he could tell by her lack of skill—she was still rather fresh and inexperienced. Therefore he suppressed his urgency, exchanging it instead for the pleasure of seeing those exquisite rosebud lips slide again and again over the shaft of his cock, tangling his fingers in the thick brown mass of her hair. For a few minutes he thrummed, his entire body, from toenails to tips of his fingers buzzing like a hive of bees, skin crawling, bones and joints aching with the need to procreate, the need to spill his seed.

Finally, it was too much; either he was going to blow up or hurt the wee thing by not trying. Eomer helped her to stand, got her up against the wall, and, before fumbling to get her skirts out of the way, tugged at the bodice of her low cut gown until her breasts spilled out, heavy and full as water skins. She held tightly to him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked about his neck as took her quickly, groaning in relief, cupping the softness of her bottom in his big hands, inhaling the strongly perfumed scent of skin common to all house wenches. In a brief moment of clarity, he wondered if the reason whores wore so much perfume was to conceal the scent of the last man from the next.

He rode to her spurring, tender but urgent, her body a sacrifice to his need, the sound of her rear thumping off the boards of the wall, rhythmic as the thundering of his heart, suffering ignominiously from the affliction commonly known as drunkman's cock, that increasingly frustrating condition which prolonged the act but delayed the inevitable—he'd have been spent long since otherwise. But she was enthusiastic, enduring the ceaseless thrusting of his hips, caressing him, whispering love words in his ear until he began to shiver and quake, the long, strong superstructure of his body—arms and legs and spine—liquefying like lead heated in a fire.

And in the end…

In the end, as light from the taproom filtered into their private grotto, flickering and insubstantial, erasing any remaining traces of anonymity, he cupped her face in his hands, gazed into bottomless brown eyes the color of rich coffee and realized how very young she was—sixteen, maybe, seventeen. Gods, he hoped she wasn't any younger, then she'd be young enough—he swallowed thickly thinking about it—to be his own daughter;_ he_ certainly was old enough.

Eothain was right. In the end, he couldn't save them all and in the morning, despite the current state of euphoria gushing through arteries and vibrating in nerve endings, he would still feel a loneliness no woman but his own could fill.

Eomer had done all he could for the girl, straightening her clothes, giving her a few extra coins, and brushed his lips over hers in several long, languid kisses of thanks and farewell.

He'd returned to the table ten or, maybe, fifteen minutes after he'd left, disheveled, hazy eyed and sheened with the sweat of exertion which made the fabric of his shirt stick to him in places. His friends, quite thirsty by this time, rankled him with good natured insults, boisterous comments on his sexual prowess and wildly inaccurate depictions of the act. Eothain, good friend that he was, said nothing.

Lonely he might be, however, alone he was not, listening to bangings and muttered condemnations coming from the other side of the room. Loti was disappointed in him, and to be honest he was disappointed in himself.

"It wasn't like I planned it," he objected. This was true. Eothain had, at least at the time, talked him out of doing anything regrettable.

It hadn't been lust, or rather, it had, but it wasn't sexual appetite which drove him towards that dalliance in the stair well. It was the lust for companionship, the chance to share bodies, knowledge, pleasure with another, to love and be loved in those all to quick seconds of transcendency when the world around them cracked and splintered, destroyed and remade him anew.

What was really bothering him, what he wanted—needed—to understand was why Loti's disappointment mattered so much to him?

The clattering was making the booming inside the shell of his skull worse, so he stuck a hand under the chuff mattress, shoving it about, hoping she hadn't… He pulled out a knife—not so unusual, he always slept with a knife—put it back and kept searching.

"It doesn't matter to me what you do," she said, airily indifferent.

_Doesn't it?_ he wondered.

He was treading on thin ice here, that was for sure. Eomer had observed enough women and married couples to realize she was again speaking in that contradictory language women sometimes reverted to when dealing with men, where yes means no, "I'm sorry" means she's not, "Nothing" is actually something—usually quite important—and "I'm fine" is code for "Get away from me before I claw your eyeballs out." If Loti asked him if she looked fat, Eomer was going to suffer a sudden attack of narcolepsy.

No matter what he did, said, or supposed, he was doomed in any case.

Loti was cursing him in Haradrim, now, he caught what he thought were the words, "man with no feeling in his head" or numbskull. Eomer wanted to tell her what she needed was a man to lay her on her back and give her a good hard fucking, preferably up the ass, in order to relieve some of that straight backed, stiff necked, asshole puckering hauteur. He didn't, though, because she'd come right back supposing that he'd like to do it for her. And…well, she'd maybe be half right.

His steadily delving hand found what he was looking for, alacritously reemerging with a thick green glass flask flecked with teeny tiny bubbles and sloshing with a red-brown liquid. Carefully unpopping the cork, Eomer put it to his lips. The brandy, hot and sweet in his mouth with a nastily acrid finish on his tongue, was one of Middle earth's more inferior blends—he'd taken a cask of it in trade from one of the locals for a wheel of cheese and a leg of lamb—but it was alcoholic and numbing.

The loud slam of a wooden spoon on the desktop punctuated her grousing and caused Eomer to jump. "How many more times are you going to do this?" she demanded, then louder and more shrill asked, "What do you think you're doing?"

Unable to keep from smirking, Eomer said, "Self healing," and drank again.

One hand on her hip, Loti refuted this, emphasizing each word, eyes glittering like a mad woman's do just before she does something truly insane. "You need coffee!"

"I thought you said I needed tea?"

"Well you don't need that." She was looming over the bed now, face unbecomingly curdled, like lemon juice dropped in fresh milk, snatching for the small bottle. "Give me that!"

Protectively cradling it, he fended off a couple of her determined lunges. She huffed, having failed to retrieve the bottle, stood up straight, swiped a hank of unruly chestnut hair out of her eyes and set a pair of fists on her hips, emphasizing their curviness.

"Fine," she said through pursed lips, "You can keep the bottle if—" this contingency sounded sinister, "you drink the rest of the tea."

"I thought you said you like tea," she observed after seeing his hesitation.

"Fine," he agreed reluctantly and she bore the wooden mug to him in cupped hands, settling herself back on the stool at his bedside to be sure he drank it all.

Eomer peered over the rim of the vessel. It might taste like the underside of the privy seat, but it looked more or less like the stuff that was in the bottom of the privy pit. Not that is smelled much better than it looked or tasted.

"So," she began, taking control of the conversation, "who are they? The boy and the woman!" Annoyed, she sighed when his eyebrow crinkled in confusion.

Sipping the perfectly awful tea, he quickly acquainted her with the circumstances of his meeting with Mel and their subsequent agreements.

"What are you going to do with him?"

He lifted heavy shoulders, rustling the chuff of the mattress. "I thought about training him to be a page."

The girl giggled, literally right in his face. "You? Employ a page?" Loti snorted, "You? Who came a thousand miles from home with nothing except a horse and two days worth of clean clothes is suddenly going to train a page?"

"A man can change his mind," he was mildly put out by her attitude. "I do have pages at home you know."

"Fine, then," she conceded, sobering quickly, "What about the boy's mother?"

"She's not well, is she?"

Loti pulled the sheet up higher, still fussing over him. "No, she's not. She's dying. That'll be obvious to you when you see her in the daylight. I doubt she'll make it to the end of the year."

"Ah. I see," he said contemplatively, the knowledge of that weighing heavily on his mind as he swirled the liquid in the cup. "Hmm?" His head snapped up.

"I said have you talked to her yet? Told her what you intend to do for the boy?" she repeated.

"No, not yet. But…they're my responsibility now. I suppose I'll have to do the best I can for both of them. Think the boy knows? That she's dying?"

"Hard to say, really, but I don't know how he couldn't." Loti smiled slightly, a subtle curve of soft wine colored lips. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, slipped smoothly down the length of his arm, and into his free hand, gripping it strongly, reassuring as his own mother's touch. "You're a rare and unique man, Eomer."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a rueful sideways smile. "Mmm. Don't go telling spreading it around. It might get mistaken for weakness." Avoiding her gaze, he was still swirling the cup, watching his reflection circle round and round, disappearing down the vortex.

"Nonesense! It's not weakness at all! It's compassion. And I never said what kind of rare and unique man you were. You're just assuming it's a compliment. Is the tea to hot? Your face is bright red."

He kept his nose buried in the mug, gulping, face burning. Crickets! How did she do this to him—make him feel so shy and embarrassed? It was as if he were four and ten again and the first time he'd ever had a girl's hand on his privates.

"Well," she began when he'd finished the tea and tossed aside the container with a grimace, "If you're quite alright now, I have work to finish."

Whether or not he was 'alright' was up for debate, but she stood to take her leave anyway. As she passed by the head of the bed, though, he reached for her hand.

"Is something the matter?"

Talk of a son and his dying mother had created an extraordinary hollowness in the center of his chest and, just then, he didn't think he could bear to be without her company.

"Who gave you permission to go?" he asked.

She surveyed him in a most serious fashion over the tip of her neat little nose. "His Majesty gave me orders to finish decoding al Din's letters. I was given to understand time of the utmost importance. I shouldn't like to disobey him."

"Oh, I don't think he'd mind."

"Mmm," Loti hummed, dubiously, "And how do you know that?"

"Well…I've known the man virtually my entire life. I'm pretty sure I know how he thinks," and with a wink, a wide smile on his face, he tugged and she came, collapsing on the camp bed next to him, the overburdened wooden frame creaking under their combined weight.

Mindful of the mini avalanche taking place behind his eyeballs, Eomer sat up slowly, the linen sheet pooling in wrinkled folds about his hips. Battered, scarred and twisted, his were the hands of violence, completely incongruous and unlike the hand he still held, designed more for combat and farming than tenderness, but he was not totally incapable of such feelings when the situation demanded. He slid his hand under the heavy, deep brown mass of her hair, the broad palm easily cupping the back of her slender neck. A bar of sunlight cut through the crack in the loose hanging tent flaps and shot her skin at chest and throat and cheeks a lovely shade of pink-tinged bronze, flecked with gold, so it appeared as though she'd been dipped in the sun and her eyes, thickly lashed and slightly slanted, were the same color as deep pools of water, fathomless, and he could have drown in them.

Then, without words, he bent his head and kissed her softly. There was nothing overtly sexual about the kiss. It wasn't one of those long, warm open mouthed kisses; a moist, slippery, probing imitation of the act love. Yet, even still, he lingered, a bit longer than was considered appropriate, hoping for permission, waiting for submission, until, at last, she too obeyed the same impulse and her lips firmed under his.

He wanted more from her, much more, but to do so would be to start a fire which would burn them both to ashes.

When it was over, a light stain of pink crested her cheeks and Eomer, incorrigible as ever, licked his lips. "You don't taste bad at all," he teased, "Here, I thought you'd be as sour as a lemon."

"A little bit of sugar will make even the sourest lemon sweet." She was openly and guilelessly flirting with him and the implication of her words was not lost on Eomer.

"Myself, I prefer honey to sugar. I find it's sweetest right from the hive." It was a reckless thing to say, a declaration of intent…and a warning if Loti chose to hear it. He was still grasping her neck, dawdling his fingers in the fine hairs at her nape.

"Hmm…" She hummed in a voice like steam rising from a cup of tea on a cold day, "It takes a lot more than a little buzzing to make good honey."

Hmphf-ing through his nose, Eomer chuckled. "I suppose you're right. Come here."

Wrapping his arm around her neck, he pulled Loti close, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow. Her hair was soft next to his cheek, smelling of flowers and stale cigar smoke, while her skin carried the faint scent of a woman's body, musk and soap together with the less noticeable hint of female desire.

_Oh, hen…_he sighed, stirring a few fine strands of hair by her ear. Closing his eyes, Eomer imagined a blind and lust crazed coupling right there on the sandy ground of his tent, all their secrets revealed in the bright light of the day. But for every one of his male fantasies, what he wanted most was simply her embrace, the knowledge they were both alive and safe. And together.

A raw, hard spot had grown in the back of his throat, choking him like a noose. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, suddenly feeling the unstoppable tide of melancholy rising over him like a great wave out of the ocean. For Eomer, the joys of happiness had always been unavoidably linked with infinite sadness. It wasn't something he wanted her to see. Later when she was gone, he would let it come, but not now, not when they had time…

Into the mussed cloud of her hair, he murmured, "Thank you. I know why you did what you did and I'm not angry, just…" his words sounded husky and thick with too much emotion, "worried." There were other words he wanted to say, explanations he needed to hear, questions he should ask, but, instead, he settled for how he felt. Anything else could wait. "I'm glad you're not hurt, hen."

"Not hurt?" Hands on his bare chest, Loti pushed him away, gem blue eyes creased, glaring into his face. "You dropped me from a second floor balcony into a bush, you dunce! My backside feels like a pincushion!"

Eomer, being a man, couldn't resist saying something injudicious about possibly rubbing the affected area and her eyes narrowed further, flattening out like a snake's. He hastily withdrew the offer, not wanting to be slapped in the face.

"You know, I'll never understand women," he grinned a moment later, shaking his head and completely forgetting all about his previous remark. Eomer let his fingertips rest in the delicate depression at the base of her throat, absorbing the steady vibration of her pulse beat. She sat straight-backed and tall in spite of her short stature, never slouching as so many girls did, hands neatly clasped in her lap, poised with a propriety, an indefinable…something—regality? He had trouble putting words to it—which belied her common birth. "You cover yourselves up in lace and fabric thinking it's attractive… How do you expect to be an object of unseemly lust to a man when you're all bundled up? A woman's body is a thing of great beauty. It should be appreciated as much as the woman within." Two large blunt nailed fingers plucked the kerchief from her bosom. "Do—do you know why a man makes love to a woman?" Had they been anywhere other than a tent, encamped on a semi-arid plain, this would be the kind of scandalous talk he'd reserve for seducing the loosest Gondorian court doxie.

The backs of his fingers trailed across her chest, grazing the tops of her breasts as he admired their shape, imagined again their strange firm wobbly quality. Her skin was hot, her color high, her pulse quick and hard in the delicate throat.

"Babies? Perverse interest?"

"No. He's worshipping her. Her body, her beauty. She is a man's heart, his peace, his strength and his greatest weakness. When he lies with her, he shows her his soul." Inspired, he quoted, "Whatever is in any way beautiful hath its source of beauty in itself, and is complete in itself; praise forms no part of it. So it is none the worse nor the better for being praised."

Loti snatched the square of fabric out of his hand, looking more perturbed than flattered. "I think I've just been insulted. Who would say something so ridiculous?"

"I think he was a General."

"Hmphf. What would a soldier know about beauty?"

_Plenty, _he thought, but didn't want to argue.

"So you don't like that one, huh? Let me see…Ah!" Eomer took her hand in his as a chivalric knight might woo a lady, declaiming, "She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in aspect and her eyes."

Whilst extricating her hand, the eyes of which he spoke rolled exaggeratedly. "I'm beginning to see why you're still unmarried. Is that how you've been getting women into bed all these years?"

"Nah. It's my sword. Women can't resist the sight of a big one, you know."

Loti groaned like a mortally wounded cat, then stood, brushing wrinkles from her tea stained skirts. "Ugh. Pathetic."

"You have a better one?" he asked as she crossed the room to her desk, bare feet, small as doll's feet, winking out from beneath the hem of the skirt.

"Yes. How about: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

Eomer frowned. "Who said that?"

"A large, talking, pink pig." Her arms flung out from her sides. "How should I know!" She began rifling her own desk, setting certain items aside. "Really, Eomer? Unseemly lust? Tsk! Go back to bed."

Easing himself down on the bed, he propped his head in his hand, the bed clothes still crumpled about his multiple nether limbs. "Fine," he agreed heartily, "Your bed or mine."

A wholly unflattering sound like "Tfft," came out of Loti's mouth, the burst of breath it took to make such a derisive noise ruffling her untidy bangs. "Well, seeing as how there's a sick woman and one bad smelling boy in mine, you're stuck here in your own. Alone." She glided towards the autumn light of the door, fairly bristling with stacks of papers and folders crushed to her chest. "I'm going to work in Wolf's tent. You," one sharp nailed finger pointed at him, "get some rest. There's food over there," the finger redirected itself to a tray on his desk, "and later you should write to this Faramir person—" saying it off handedly as if 'this Faramir person' were an inconsequential member of her own family instead one of the most important leaders in Middle earth, "and tell him what we've found. I'm still working on some of it. I'll be back later to show you." And with that she flounced out the door, leaving Eomer laying there with the odd feeling that he should have leapt to attention and saluted her as she exited.

Eomer relaxed, sinking back into the rustling chuff mattress, listening to the normal daytime sounds of a few thousand men and beasts residing inside a large, semi-permanent camp. After lying there a while, staring up into the canvas ceiling and blinking, he dozed, waking instantly sometime later—with a much less dreadful headache—to feminine shrieks. At first, fuzzy headed with sleep and hangover as he was, Eomer thought these to be the waking remnants of a string of wildly erotic dreams he'd been having—the high pitched cries of a woman thoroughly satisfied. Shaking off the cloud of cobwebs, he could see the source of the screeching through the single pinned back tent flap.

Mel was a little distance off, across the way. A highly intelligent and observant lad, the little stinker had a troublemaker's streak running right down the middle of his back. He'd been engaged in what any eleven year old boy thought of as fun, throwing horse apples and clods of mud at passersby, finding it even more entertaining to hide from and ambush his intended prey. Men, being the not so particular creatures that they are, weren't afraid of a bit of horse dung or mud on their uniform, and most of the Riders he attacked found it all harmless, good natured fun; boys will be boys and all that. Loti, on the other hand, did not.

She took a fist sized ball of horse manure right to the belly, a second exploded against her shoulder like a meteorite impacting earth, showering fine particles of manure in all directions and the last was a direct hit square in the center of her chest. Loti screamed, a noise remarkably like that of an enraged panther, Mel laughed, and Eomer wasn't too surprised. Really, what had he expected?

The sprat bastard needed a father figure and he had made a conscious commitment to see the boy brought up right. Well…Eomer supposed a good father, foster or no, would get up and paddle the boy's black behind until it glowed red. He was about to throw off the covers and go stomping out into the yard, naked and menacing to lay down the king's law, when someone did something he hadn't expected.

Loti, purple with fury, charged after Mel who, belatedly realizing his mistake, spun around and collided face first into a tree. Bleeding slightly from the nose, his black eyes rolled back in his pumpkin head and he tottered over like a felled log. Pouncing like a cat onto a mouse, she got him off the ground by the shank of his ear, and forcibly led the apparently uninjured Mel to a horse trough, wincing. Eomer cringed a bit too, remembering what that felt like.

In reality, Loti was not much bigger than Mel, but she picked the stout boy up by the body anyway and dropped him in. She jawed and scolded, repeatedly dunking the spluttering future pageboy and roughly scrubbing at his dirty face or clothes or body while he splashed and kicked, spraying water everywhere. She had said he smelled bad.

A few entertaining minutes later, Eomer watched, along with several other guffawing bystanders, as Mel somehow disentangled himself from Loti's clutches and tumbled out the back of the trough, rolling, of course, in the only visible patch of dirt in the area. The boy wisely hit the ground running and disappeared like a shrewd businessman on tax day, clothes dripping. Loti, meanwhile, looked down at the front of her dripping and manure splotched gown, fingered a few locks of soaked hair, flicked hands at herself in disgust and stomped off in the opposite direction.

Eomer laughed.

Finding himself alone and unobserved, he reached downwards for a scratch, discovering one lingering side effect of his erotic dreaming had not entirely worn off yet. They had been pleasant faceless dreams full of slender limbs, smooth hips, fat rumps and sweat slick bodies, twisting and writhing, rising and falling, only to rise again in a rhythm of love making that had neither clear beginning nor any memorable end.

He cupped his balls, warm and slightly tacky. Memories of dreams had brought back other memories, too, prick hardening memories of sticky leather, puckered nipples between his teeth and a smooth, hairless cunny. Idly, thoughtlessly, he stroked the half hard head of his cock with a thumb, rousing easily, seeing it growing like a well tended sapling. Proudly, he admired it with no sense of modesty or professional detachment. It was a large cock, even when soft and when erect, it was blue veined, dark red with blood, almost purple at the head, the skin pulled taught like silk over polished bone, hot to the touch, capable of giving and receiving an abundance of pleasure.

With conviction of conscience he didn't even try to understand, just obeyed, Eomer took his hand away before it was too late, bunching both hands in the sheets, lying there stiff as a board, his cock echoing this position against his belly, oozing slightly in defiant arousal. The day wasn't overly hot, but he was starting to sweat, trickles running down his temples and sides, dampening the linen fisted in his hands and the dark hairs at the base of his cock. He sighed, laying his head back on the pillow, enduring the jolts of unfulfilled pleasure that boomed like the beats of a bass drum line, deep throbbings radiating to belly and brain and balls.

_No…_ The thought was there, but not very well formed. _No._ This time it was much more firm. No, he couldn't do this—that—and think of Loti while he did it. Unseemly lust, was it? Thinking of her when he was in bed with another woman was one thing. Now, to use her in such a way, for his own gratification seemed somehow wrong, dirty, like unwilling participation. It seemed that for most of her young life, she had been used in that way, passed from hand to hand, desired only for what she could do for a man with her body. Unloved. The true beauty beneath the skin uncared for.

And last night she'd been…Well, he'd been there. It was difficult to pick the right adjective to describe her. Gorgeous, radiant, ravishing all damned her with false praise. If there was ever a word for extraordinarily stunning, last night Loti had been it. _Heart stopping_, Eomer decided, satisfied with this very apt description. His nearly had, seeing her standing alone on al Din's garden terrace, silvered in the light of the moon, more fair than any elf he'd ever known, the silk of her gown moulded to her body like a slick of oil.

Other men had noticed it too, undressing her with their soulless dark eyes and it had taken all of Eomer's intestinal fortitude not to back each and every one of them into a dark corner and punch them in the face.

In the many months since he'd ascended to the throne, been bestowed with land and riches, men's respect and unchecked, unconditional power, last night, with Loti, was the first time he'd ever really felt like a king.

Something like a hand, but wasn't, gripped him around the throat, squeezing so his breath caught. _There's the trouble, isn't it, cock..._ What he was feeling for Loti went far beyond the bounds of the familial, brotherly or fatherly. Attraction between a man and a woman was one of nature's most powerful forces and, like a magnet to iron, impossible to resist…or to deny.

He'd known it all along too, hadn't he. From the instant he'd touched his lips to hers just now, a fine vibration had run through him, into her and back again, arcing between them like static.

Had she felt it too—magnet and iron?

The realization made him wholly uncomfortable and he shut his eyes against it, shifting in the bed, hoping to drive it away by sheer power of will. It wouldn't go so easily, though.

It was late afternoon-ish and the sun was coming down the sky, no longer lighting the tent canvas in a blaze of yellow fire. Off to the west, an afternoon thunderstorm was clouding the horizon, boiling up in shades of dark blue, purple and a sort of greenish gray, ominous as a black eye.

As weather and sky began to change, so did Eomer's thoughts, turning towards the philosophical as they were like to do when he was feeling foolishly introspective.

Was it mere coincidence or some preordained fate set down in the ages before his birth which had brought him and Loti together in this time when they both so clearly needed…something. Connection or stability, perhaps? He'd become inordinately fond of the girl in a strange unexplainable way, true, but was there anything other than respect and physical attraction on which to build a new and different kind of relationship?

And if their meeting had been predetermined, then what of free will? His or hers?

Had these same fates foreseen his ascension to the throne?

Not for the first time Eomer was glad he had faith in things that couldn't be explained.

As he often did with women he had a certain intimacy with, when he was either bored or alone, as he was now, he entertained the idea about getting a baby on her, or more accurately, doing what led to getting a baby on her. It was an interesting flight of fancy, not the bedding part, although that was quite a, ah, pleasurable idea, but the baby part, the raising of one, the having of a part of himself. The knowing that there would be something of him left behind…at the end.

Maybe all of this was only the dreaming of a boy, one trapped inside a man's body, innocence and experience mingled, wanting nothing but the ties of family and the knowledge of a happy home once again.

A finger of mist, a voice, reached out to tickle him through the fog of memory.

"A man should never take an oath he doesn't mean to keep."

Theodred and his thoughts on marriage. Eomer could see his cousin through the shroud of time, laughing and joking over a huge foaming mug of beer in some disreputable tavern full of degenerates, imbuing other impressionable young men with his ideals, winking as a hapless barmaid passed within ogling distance.

A loyal sort, generous and never cruel, Theodred's morals were always a little suspect.

Honor being what it was, Eomer swore if he was ever to have Loti in such a way, willing and naked next to him, he would find a way to love her rightly, properly as she deserved. And in a decent bed where he could take his time.

Thunder grumbled softly somewhere off in the distance and a flash of white hot lightning rimmed a patch of boiling blue-black cloud. His testicles felt like a firecracker with a slow burning fuse, the spark not quite reaching detonation. But with or without sore balls, if he didn't want several hundred, half ton, high strung, valuable, battle trained horses careening wildly across the campground and potentially injuring themselves, he better get his bare ass out of bed. There was work to be done.

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed, sitting up with a moan and some momentary lightheaded discomfort. Then he glanced down at himself.

From between his legs, the one eyed serpent stared up at him accusingly. _Go fuck yourself_, it seemed to say_. Not to worry_, Eomer bent an eye at it in return. He was fairly certain he already had.

XXX

To Faramir, Steward of Gondor

From EomerKing

_Brother,_

_I write to you in haste as the messenger awaits._

_Enclosed you will find copies of several letters to unknown individuals, deciphered, most accurately, I believe, by my secretary, and lately found in the possession of the Harad Chieftain, Izz al Din. The accompanying notations provided here within should help you determine more precisely the locations of production and storage of the black powder and any other large stores of weapons, a brief list of ships names, and dates when said ships should lay at anchor in the port of Pelargir. Also provided is a truncated report on the finding of these incriminating documents; the full story I will impart to you sometime in the future. My secretary, of whom I have written to you before, has been of the greatest assistance to me in this endeavor. She is a most capable woman and I find myself becoming most found of both her company and her counsel. _

_Let me speak plainly now. Time is of the essence regarding this issue, brother. The Chieftain will have sent his own messengers to Pelargir by this time and what with the delays or travel, I fear we shall never catch him up and all remaining traces of this foul operation will disappear only to be reestablished in another unknown location. I cannot allow this to happen. I would, in fact, set out with my own men to see this mission complete, save I have not the men to spare, nor the authority to undertake such military action in Gondor. That I am not a man of seas or ships is of little consequence in this matter. Therefore, I must trust in you, Faramir, your wisdom and your experience. _

_Give my regards to Aragorn and my love to my sister. Until I hear from you again, I remain,_

_Your Most Obedient Servant,_

_E_

_P.S. I have sent my fastest Rider with these tidings, instructing him to stop for nothing save when it is needful. Please see he is offered hospitality. His will have been an arduous journey. _


	19. Chapter 19 A Pirate's Life For Me

A/N: Hello again! Thanks for reading and reviewing. Look at me updating in a timely manner! And a short chapter at that! Or relatively short. I'm not sure when I'll post again, though I am still writing so don't worry. I have taxes and a bunch of stuff coming up so my writing time will be limited. I'm beginging to under stand how stories get away from writers. This thing is totally ballooning out! This isn't the mushiest chapter with alot of sexual tension that drives you mad, but then this isn't a standard by the book formual romance either. I still have to further the story and the mystery. I wanted to try something that's hard to do also; telling a story second hand through the first person. Next chapter will be the start of a new part, with new characters, adventures, complications and, maybe more!

If you've not yet hit the bar at the bottom of the page to review, please do so. It is the only reward a begining writer gets and I like to get reviews from a diverse crowd. You guys are sort of like my editor.

* * *

Over the next week camp life returned to a more or less normal routine but with an ever vigilant tension that seemed to run through the men like an invisible current.

Having beaten back the effects of a lingering hangover, Eomer was restored to his usual taciturn, self but he also became increasingly quiet and remote, although not angry or mean about it. There was a marked sense of distant more than anything else, keeping everyone and everything at an arm's length, as though something weighed heavily on his mind. He walked and worked, often times alone, rising before dawn with little or no sleep, tackling menial things that needed doing, such as bridle mending or water hauling, coming back in time for supper or the daily debrief with his officers hot, filthy, exhausted, distracted and lacking any interest in conversation. Loti, cornering Eothain exiting the privy one afternoon, inquired as to what the problem was. Raising his shoulders in a shrug, Eothain told her it had to do with his sister but if he knew more, he wore his friend's troubles close to the vest.

Properly bathed, dressed in whatever clothing could be found for him—a pair of brown, secondhand wool britches and a matching leather jerkin type garment with a linen shirt—and shod in a pair of knee length riding boots, Mel immediately took to his training, following _Himself _everywhere, trailing behind like a shadow, eagerly running messages or doing errands when instructed. Mel was as enamored of the men as they were of him, finding instantaneous friendship with many, including an unsuspecting Theofrid. The first time they met, he, Mel, stared up at him, Theo, in gape jawed stupefaction that was quickly superseded by a wonderment not unlike the reaction most averaged sized people affected when meeting the giant. Theo called the boy 'squash', which had everything to do with the size and shape of the boy's head.

An odd pair indeed, Theo, hearing Mel had no familiarity with a weapon, took it upon himself to instruct the boy in a bit of swordsmanship and combat strategy. Eomer was also actively involved in the boy's training and for an hour or two each day they would teach Mel a few basic fighting tactics and the techniques of feint, parry, and void using sticks as opposed to a real winger with which most boys his age would be practicing. Sometimes, at Mel's urging, Eomer and Theo would spar, engaging in that bit of advanced swordsmanship called showing off and, on occasion, if her work allowed, Loti would sit next to Mel and watch, the clash of steel and bashing of shields filling her ears, making her cringe. They reminded her of the old stories, of something that might have come out of those mysterious and long forgotten Eldar Days, two golden giants battling on the precipice of the world, the edge of unknown, brutal and beautiful and terrible.

Meanwhile, Loti and Mel had come to an understanding; if he didn't throw any more horse apples in her direction then she wouldn't break a wooden spoon over his backside. While finding the boy's mere presence, never ending abundance of questions, and tendency to act like a destructive, bored puppy a nuisance, Loti did feel sorry for him when his mother, frail and bent with sickness, rode north to Minas Tirith and the great House of Healing there with a pair of recently come Gondorian soldiers.

To Loti, Eomer said nothing of what had happened the night of al Din's party or the following day, but she could feel his eyes on her, ever watchful, as if he feared something might materialize out of thin air to snatch her away. He'd insist on being inside the privy with her, next thing, lest a demon rise out of the depths to pull her under!

Izz al Din hadn't yet retaliated, but as a precaution, Eomer sent word north to Elfhelm for reinforcements. Five hundred Rohirric troops rode into camp a few days later, en masse, taxing an already taxed supply of flour, oats and beer. With enormous appetites fueled by such activities as patrolling, peacekeeping, or tending a large heard of horses, Loti decided the expression should be hungry as a Horse Lord instead.

Through the good offices of Indalecio, the merchant, Eomer was able to acquire the name of another merchant who was willing to contract with him in order to supplement their dwindling stores of food until another and larger shipment of was delivered.

So it was on the pretext of retrieving food that had Eomer beckoning her away from her desk and riding with him into town.

XXX

"Why can't I go with?" Loti's booted foot thumped on the street.

"Indalecio says this man doesn't care over much for women," explained Eomer.

"So?"

It was a lovely fall day, the weather warm but not scorching, and the bowl of the sky was a clear bright blue, the color of shallow seas and Eomer's eyes. On market day morning, this specific meteorological condition meant the streets of the city were alive and bustling and they were all being jostled a bit by impatient shoppers eager to get first crack at the choicest cuts of meat, freshest fish or ripest vegetables. A short man, not watching where he was going, crashed into Eomer from behind, a large fluffy white sheep slung across his shoulders. About to curse Eomer with some scathing Haradrim invective, the small man's face tilted up until it was inclined at an impossibly steep angle, visibly choking off whatever he was going to say when he saw the bigger man's tight lipped scowl. The sheep, immune to the subtleties of human face, rudely bah-ed at Eomer before being carried hastily off, bobbing like a cloud above the heads of the others in the crowd.

His forehead knitted as the argued, and, after a brief glance at his men milling in the street behind him, Eomer seized Loti by the elbow, propelling her forward.

"What-?" she blurted, reluctantly steered against the oncoming press of humanity until they were out of ear shot of the others. Any other exclamations of dissatisfaction were cut off by Eomer's grumbling.

"I didn't bring you here to go with us."

"Well, then? Why did you bring me?"

Shiftily, as if he were a conjuring wizard—a wizard actively on the lookout for pickpockets—Eomer extracted a small leather purse from somewhere on his person, handing it to her.

"What's this?" she asked, pulling the knot. Tipping the mouth of it into her other hand, several coins slithered out, chiming together.

"I thought—" a blush seemed to be rising up the skin of his neck, even under the dark of his tan. "I thought you'd like to…buy yourself something." With a cock of the eyebrow her indicated the open air market and covered bazaar some distance down the street where throngs of locals, men and women alike, were swarming like ants over a bowl of sugar, haggling and shouting, scrutinizing and harshly dismissing whatever was offered for sale.

"Oh. No, E, I can't. Really," she protested, feeling her own cheeks flush with something other than the heat of the sun. She tipped the palm full of glinting silver and copper discs back into the pouch and tried handing it back. "I don't need anything. It's not necessary."

He waved a hand, dismissing it as inconsequential, features stern. "I want you to have it. You've earned it." When she persisted, he snapped, "To give back a gift would be an insult. You'll take it."

Finding it difficult to refuse, Loti acquiesced, sighed and shrugged in resignation, and tucked the little bag safely inside her satchel.

"Theofrid will go with you."

Loti peered out from around Eomer, looking towards Theo who stood laughing with a couple of other Rohirric men brought along for the job of hauling back sacks of flour and barrels of beer, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his great sword, long, braided hair glowing like gold in the sun.

"What for?" she demanded.

"For protection."

Deep grooves formed above her brows as she frowned. "Protection?" Her gaze swept the street. This well-to-do neighborhood wasn't called Little Gondor for aesthetic purposes. The vast majority of the populace was of Gondorian decent, fair skinned and grey eyed, with only here and there the odd olive skinned servant or squint eyed merchant who thought to foist his wares on a new and unsuspecting client base. Had this been the south bank of the river, with its denser and more traditional Haradrim population, his fears about her safety might not be unfounded. But here? His insistence sounded more like the paranoia beggars and street people sputtered. "Protection from whom?"

Patience tried, Eomer mumbled something uncomplimentary.

"You can't send Theo with me," she said, ignoring his comments, "You'll embarrass him! And besides, you'll need his help with the wagons and the food."

"Theo is a soldier and he'll do as he's told. That's what he gets paid for."

It took quite some arguing with Eomer until, at last, his lips disappeared beneath the sandy shag of his beard, and he relented with bad grace. "Fine." His mouth moved around his teeth but the strained lips didn't remerge. The blue of his eyes lit with what she thought might be nervousness but vanished as quickly as she'd seen it. "You've got a weapon? Good. Meet me back here in two hours." Then he took her elbow in his hand again and leaned down a bit so only she could hear him. "If you're even a minute late, woman, I won't hesitate to batter down every building in the city to find you. Understood?"

XXX

Feeling somewhat like a turtle emerging from its shell, Loti exited the covered bazaar sometime later, pausing to squint against the brightness of the day, and crammed the last bite of savory cheese roll stuffed with green olives and sausage into her mouth.

She hurried on across the crowded square, still chewing, not wishing to be late meeting Eomer lest he make good on his promise to destroy the city if she didn't show.

Her hand strayed to the side of the satchel, feeling the sturdily boxed outline of her single purchase. A simple man with simple indulgences, one of the few luxuries Eomer allowed himself, besides a comfortable bed, was a decent cup of tea; the taste for which he'd acquired during multiple stays in Gondor. Unfortunately, he didn't have decent tea cup from which to drink. The cup she'd bought for him wasn't much, just a plain, utilitarian piece of porcelain crockery with a blue band about the middle and matching saucer, but anything was preferable to watching him drink good Eastern tea out of a gourd cup or a suspect wooden mug.

Certainly, she could have bought something for herself, that was what Eomer had wanted. But somehow, she didn't think three yards of peony colored silk was-

Passing a stall festooned in ribbons and hair ornaments, Loti, like a baby fascinated by shiny objects, decided that, on second thought, she would by herself something, choosing a pink ribbon and a pair of carved ivory hair combs before straightening her head scarf and scurrying off again.

The street was only slightly less crowded than it had been before and Loti had to stand on her tip toes every once in a while, scanning the darting bodies and undulating sea of heads for Eomer's unmistakable golden one. Ah, there he was, a literally a whole head taller than everyone else, smiling down at someone charmingly, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Loti let out a Feanorian groan similar to the one the elf himself when discovering he'd lost the Silmarils. _Not another one!_ Eomer reserved those glints of the eye for only the most attractive women. _Who was she this time?_ She craned her neck, standing on tip toes, still unable to see, being bumped and jostled by passersby.

She considered that, perhaps, she should be a little more conciliatory towards the women with whom he associated. Eomer, presumably, would marry one day, and his wife would become her new mistress once Loti became a house maid—when and if _that_ was ever going to happen! And she would be nicer, maybe, if all the women he associated with weren't professional doxies and harlots.

The throng thinned a bit and she could finally see some between the bodies. Eomer was facing Loti; the woman, half turned away from her so Loti couldn't get a good look at her until a long fingered hand slid the gauzy scarf back from her face.

Loti gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. For several seconds she just stood there in disbelief, pale as the wispy clouds in the sky, rooted to the cobbles beneath her feet as though they were encased in the stones. An unexpected chill made her shiver, icy tentacles tickling the back of her neck, sliding coolly down her spine, making their way through the pathways of nerves and bloodstream, finding the source of her fear, her heart, and freezing it solid in her chest.

She made another sound, this time in outrage. What was _she_ doing here?

Quickly regaining her momentarily lost sang-froid, Loti shook herself, pulled the dark pink scarf across her face and whirled on her heel, blundering through the crowd before diving into a nearby alley hoping she wasn't noticed, breathing in and out of her nose like a hard ridden horse. The alley was narrow, dark, and filthy with several nasty smells, the sources of which she didn't even want to begin to contemplate.

Be a spy long enough and you begin to see things that aren't there. In the world of intellgencing, this is called 'seeing ghosts' and it happens to even the best trained spies. Could this be what had happened? Yes, it must be! Because surely it wasn't—

Pressing against the cool stones of the building that made up one half of the alley, Loti peered cautiously around the corner, not at Eomer, but at the girl he was with. She blinked repeatedly, but this ghost from her past wouldn't go away.

Her name was Puella, what her real name was, Loti didn't know, but that's what she was known as inside the stone walled compound in far away Umbar. She was a stunningly beautiful girl, as they all were, buxom and not too tall, with olive skin tinged with brown, not yellow, a mop of tightly curled dark brown hair, big pouty lips and enormous chocolate brown eyes rimmed with lashes like feathers. As Loti watched, she ran a hand up Eomer's arm in a way that was far too suggestive to be simple gratitude for saving her packages from being trampled in the street, gazing up at him while using those long lashes to best effect! And Eomer's ego was growing, visibly inflating by the second, enjoying all this female attention, and he was playing right into her hand, like the bird who hops unwittingly into the crocodile's mouth.

The troublesome thing about Puella was that she was not quite right in the head; whether this was a result of the treatment by her handlers or her natural inclinations was merely conjecture on Loti's part. Seemingly normal to most, on the outside she was meek, pretty and biddable. In reality, she was unpredictable and cruel and cold as ice water, capable of remorseless killing, of murder and violence done for no reason whatsoever, without any questions asked—the perfect assassin.

_Dear Valar!_ Loti thought. The man's cock would get him killed yet!

As a spy, a little bit of paranoia is a good thing. It's what makes the short hairs stand up on the back of your neck; it's what makes you take the long way home at night to see if anyone is following. It's what keeps you alive. Embrace it too much and you go mad. Ignore it to your peril. She cursed herself for not having sensed the girl's presence sooner. How long had she been following them? Had Eomer, with his soldier's awareness known they were being followed? Then she cursed herself for cursing herself. What difference did it make now? Leave the two of them glued together any longer and he was going to wind up a dead man!

Her heart was flapping like some giant bird's wings, heavy, hard and loud._ That bitch!_ she thought indignantly, so upset she couldn't even say the words out loud. Blood sang in her ears, the word hate taking on an entirely new meaning.

How dare she! How dare she follow them! How dare she try to seduce Eomer! Not only seduce him but try to kill him as well!

Well, she was a killer too, wasn't she; although, at this exact instant it was debatable which one of them she wanted to kill more. Damn Eomer! Damn him for putting himself in these situations!

Loti squeezed lips, teeth and eyebrows together. She could curse him later. The problem was what to do _now_!

She'd like nothing better than to walk right over there and shiv the girl—one, two, three quick stabs in the side with her knife. Would like nothing better than to see the big brown eyes glaze over, go gummy and blank in the bright autumn light, see her life's blood run, filling the chinks in the stones of the street… The sight of Loti standing over her, Puella's last vision on earth. But that was a little messier than what Loti had in mind, and might attract unwanted attention.

The alley, like so many alleys, was decorated with lines of laundry, wiggling slightly like poor man's banners in the breeze. She watched the towering patches of swaying fabric with growing interest, her imagination giving birth to an idea. Darting to the back of the alley, Loti surveyed the drooping lower lines, pulling down an old fashioned, shapeless gown and matching head veil which would hide everything but her eyes. After donning the garments, she stuffed her satchel and headscarf behind what she hoped was an old stained mattress—wondering as she did so if they'd still be there when she got back. With a sidelong glimpse to make sure Eomer was still alive and whole, Loti slipped casually from the alley, blending in with those shoppers headed towards the market.

At the appropriate stand, Loti bought a fish, a sleek, silver salmon, scales glistening. About two feet long, salted and smoked, it made a weapon as formidable as any club. She'd once seen her mother ward off a pack of snarling neighborhood dogs with such a fish.

Grasping the fish unceremoniously by the tail, Loti headed back. She could see Eomer, no longer in the middle of the street but leaning rakishly on the wrought iron railing of some boarding establishment, lips turned up in a smile; Puella at the top of the boarding house stairs, poised invitingly, framed in the doorway, holding her packages. Dodging drovers, barrowmen selling fruit, and women with babies, Loti emerged from the crowd like a vapor. Opening her mouth, she emitted a blood curdling scream, hefted the fish with both hands and walloped Eomer across the back. He jumped, startled, and threw up his arms to protect his head, half turning towards his assailant as he did so. Loti, encouraged, started shrieking all sorts of unrepeatable things in Haradrim, the cry of it like iron nails scraping polished slate, echoing down the street as she slapped him repeatedly with the fish. The crowd, interested but unwilling to interfere, backed away but continued to watch, murmuring and pointing at the spectacle before them.

Beaten, but undaunted, Eomer whirled around to face his attacker, cursing, arms upraised for protection.

In the confusion of the assault, he didn't immediately recognize her until she lowered the fish, and stamped her foot, boring her unmistakable blue eyes directly into his. For one split second, he resembled the fish in her hand, a tad open mouthed, limpid blue eyes glassy and blank, completely oblivious to its surroundings. In the next second recognition blazed up, his expression changing from one of mild irritation to red faced anger. Then she screamed again, piercingly, brandishing her weapon above her head. Eomer deflected the blow as it arched through the air, catching the fish in mid swing and yanking it out of her hands as easily as if she'd handed it to him! Now in possession of the slippery silver fish, he grabbed her firmly by the shoulders, spun Loti around, and hustled her down the street amid the bawdy hoots and cat calls of the interested masses.

"Och, honey, you can beat on me anytime!" jested one man as they passed, yellowish brown decaying teeth exposed in a smile. Another, who must have been his friend, a greasy, brown haired specimen, cracked, "I like fish. Especially tuna! Lift up your skirts, honey, so we can get a better look at that tasty—goooh!"

Eomer moved like a lightning bolt to defend her honor, planting a knee in greasy hair's groin and grabbing bad teeth by the throat, squeezing in the soft part just under the jaw.

"Hey, now, mate," bad teeth mumbled by way of apology, the words half broken by the tight grip around his neck, "I didn't mean anything by it."

Grunting, he shoved bad teeth away with disgust, wiping his hand on the skirts of his mail shirt, stepped over the writhing heap moaning on the ground, and took up Loti's arm again, making a path through the congregating spectators with armored elbows and frosty glares.

Puella, meanwhile, had shrunk back into the protection of the boarding house, the heavy cross beamed door bolted firmly behind her.

Fickle as any crowd, the press of people began to move again, shuffling at first, their entertainment having abandoned them. A little way down the street, the alleyway loomed up like a dark crack between the stone buildings and, at her insistence, they turned down it.

Once alone Eomer demanded, "For Eru's sake, woman! Have you lost your senses? Attacking me with a fish?" He held out the limp, battered thing for explanation.

"Have I lost my senses?" Loti piped, working the veil from her face, "Where are the others?"

"The others? I sent them off with the food and came back for you. Now answer the damn question!"

Loti had whisked the veil off her head and threw it back over the clothes line, crackling with static. Some of her hair stood on end, an odd sensation of tingling and prickling along the crest of her scalp. She ran her hands hastily over the strands, smoothing them into some semblance of order. Electrified hedgehog was not the look she was going for.

Shrewish was though. "Didn't I warn you about sleeping with women you don't know!" she rankled, sweating as she wriggled, not without trouble, out of the heavy gown. "No," she said, waving him off as he stepped forward to help peel her out, "I don't need help."

"Sleep with her?" Eomer made a face that meant he didn't understand. "I wasn't going to sleep with her. She bumped in to me. I was only trying to help. I was trying to be a gentleman," he insisted, defensively.

Loti had visions of lacy handkerchiefs oh-so-innocently fluttering to the floor, dropped by courtly Gondorian ladies and Eomer stooping to retrieve them from the ground…of the bold flirtation of eyes that met in the romantic flicker of candlelight, alluding to something more. Then, of Eomer fumbling up someone's skirts in the dark amid the clatter and clutter of a servant's closet, or rolling in the rich green turf of a garden with some hussy he barely knew, shoulders and neck muscles tense, narrow, square buttocks clenched with his effort, reeking of those things which made him male.

"She bumped into you. Well, how original!" she sneered and, stepping out of the puddled fabric, flung it over the clothes line to hang with the veil.

"Make sense, woman," he spouted, losing patience, "I don't even understand what you're talking about."

The fish drooped forgotten in his hand and before he'd had a chance to react, she'd snatched it out of his hand, waggling it in a threatening fashion. "What I mean is—you think with your cock!"

"Give me the frigging fish, damn it!" he growled, lunging.

She twisted out of the way and with a flick of her wrist, popped him a glancing blow with the fish.

All the color suddenly leeched out of those high, suntanned cheekbones and Eomer's face wrinkled like an old dried up apple. He staggered briefly, leaned back against the wall, wheezing, and like a tree being felled, the big body slumped bonelessly down the side of the tenement to sit among the discarded filth of the alley, moaning, big, work roughened hands cupped between tightly clamped thighs.

When he was able, in a ragged, shallow half whisper, he asked, "Wh—What did you do that for?' The muscles of his face twitched involuntarily.

"Where's your head?" Loti retorted.

"Huh?"

"Where's your head?"

Furious, but not sure if that fury was should be focused on herself, Eomer or Puella, Loti kicked at a pile of garbage heaped under an overhead window, scattering chicken bones and broken bits of pottery all along the floor of the alley. Behind her, she could hear his hoarse breathing and the grunts of pain made in the far back of his throat. Reluctantly, she supposed it was possible he was telling her the truth; that he'd simply been played, duped into helping a distressed damsel. She remember his kindness to her, remembered sitting in the dirt at his feet, motionless and shaken in the streets of Aldburg, a halo of morning sunlight crowning his golden head, a living god among the mortal men of the earth, destruction and creation together as one. A long suffering sigh made it out from between her lips and despite her feelings to the contrary, she took pity on him.

"Are you alright?" Grudging, she loomed over his balled up form.

One brown lashed eye opened, regarded her blue and cold, and snapped shut. "No," said the huddled steel and leather clad shape on the ground. In Eomer's richly timbred baritone, the word came out almost as a squeak. He winced and shifted, more words coming out in that slightly strangled voice. "You knew her then?"

"Yes, I know her. She's a killer and a monster, Eomer. You really ought to be more careful," she scolded, without heat.

"You think she was after me then? How—" he stopped and cleared his throat, not liking the raspy sound of his voice. It didn't help much. "How do you know she wasn't after you? Or both of us for that matter?"

That gave Loti pause. There was, after all, a price on her head now, too.

She squeezed her teeth together, remembering things she wanted to forget. "Then I'll have to kill her myself if I ever see her again, won't I?"

Something that wasn't the alley's native rotten garbage/chamberpot smells pervaded her nostrils. Driven past the alley entrance by a handful of men with stout sticks and kerchiefs tied round their faces was a pack of squealing, snorting hogs on their way to market, corkscrew tails high in the air, shit smeared pink rumps wiggling.

She exhaled sharply. "Well, if we're targets for assassination, we're not doing ourselves any favors by sticking around in a dark alley. Come on," she coaxed, squatting down next to a scowling, squinch eyed Eomer and wedging her shoulder under his, "I'll help you up. You're acting like you've never been hit in the stones before."

Groaning and leaning heavily on her, she managed to get his nearly three hundred pound bulk to his feet. He was sweating. It gleamed along his high cheekbones, droplets running down the hollow of his neck, through the coarse sandy hairs of his beard, trickling beneath the chain mail shirt

"What were you yelling at me back there?"

"Hmm? Oh. That you seduced me and, oh, how did you put it? Put a bun in my oven?" She darted a wary look at him, askance. "And…"

"And?" he croaked.

"And, ah…that you gave me a rather nasty disease…you know, down there." Her eyes flicked to portions south.

His voice cracked causing him to sound like a door with a squeaky hinge. "You didn't dare! What did you tell them I had? The drip? The clap?"

She shifted his weight. "Ahm…no. The one with the itchy sores. Don't look at me like that!" She shrugged. "I had to make it convincing."

"Now all of Middle earth is going to think I'm poxed."

"Oh, probably not," she soothed, "Could be worse, Eomer. At least no one thinks you're incapable."

"I hate you, you know that." Their heads were close, his arm around her shoulders for support while one hand was still wedged between his legs. His hair smelled of fresh hay, his skin of good clean dirt; the scents of a farmer.

"No. You don't," she answered mildly.

"Well, I'll tell you, if you had a pair of balls, I'd gladly punch you there right now."

"But…" she sang, "you're glad I don't."

"Mmhmm. Well, I may live to regret it."

Having collected the fish and her satchel, the two of them made their way slowly home.

Eomer quite enjoyed the tea cup. The fish was delicious.

XXX

_To EomerKing_

_From Faramir, Steward of Gondor_

_Dear Brother,_

_Having written this much, I know not what to say. _

_I believe a wise man once said to start at the beginning and when you get the end, stop. And so I shall._

_Were you aware your lovely sister had taken up gardening, she not being one to endure the mundanities of court life such as salon and musicales, not that I can blame her. This is a hobby which I whole heartedly encourage, her vow that she would lay down her sword and give up her warrior's life lasting only until her overly protective older brother was out of ear shot. No doubt after learning of these revelations you are as enthusiastic about this as I and, if you wish, you may thank me later. _

_An unforeseen consequence of this suggestion is that she spends her days puttering and potting with Arwen in the hot house, trading the gnawed fingers of boredom for green ones and abandoning me in favor of dirt and aphids! Therefore I, myself, must admit to the occasional bout of loneliness and, as I sit, working, at my brother's desk in my brother's office, I find that my mind has been wandering more and more often to thoughts of him. Surely, these remembrances are a result of my impending wedding and my fervent wish that he should be there on my happiest of days. It is an all together natural feeling, I believe, to yearn for one's missing family in a time like this. He was there for me in all things; of a certainty, he would have approved of Eowyn as much as I._

_If you were to suggest that I am stalling, you would be correct. On with the story. _

_Perhaps you were unaware, but my brother dreamt of one day rebuilding Osgiliath, restoring it to its former glory. He was a man of great ambition, Boromir; even the most daunting tasks seemed small and surmountable in his mind. Somewhat less well known was his desire to repair the neglected and overgrown sections of the Harad Road. A well maintained infrastructure he believed, quite rightly, was important to Gondor's defense as armies and supplies move much easier on roads than through bogs and wild thickets. Not a great on for intellectualism or scholarly pursuits, but he was one fine General, and knew that much at least. _

_Thus, to honor his memory, I have taken up the mantle of my brother's cause, I, myself, engaging in a new, if less frivolous hobby. In fact, it was while I was out with a company of my men and some prominent members of the local laborer's guild inspecting and surveying one such dilapidated portion of the Road in Ithilien that we met your man, doing himself credit by riding as if the entire army of Mordor were at his heels. He was, as you can imagine, reluctant to be interfered with, but once declaring my identity, he seemed much relieved. _

_On the other hand, I became much less so. I must say, upon reading your letter, Eomer, I was filled with a fierce sense of urgency. We were a good sized company of about thirty men, all mounted, armed and provisioned for many days of rough camping, but not so big as we could not ride swiftly nor much noticed taken us when eventually we rode into the city, and it was shortly thereafter that we rode forthwith towards Pelargir, sending your man on to Minas Tirith to report our whereabouts. _

_Upon arriving in Pelargir, we rode directly for the Harbor Master's offices, but not before encountering cousin Amrothos returning from one of his many mysterious adventures—Valar only knows what that boy has been up to, gallivanting in every whorehouse, alehouse, outhouse and henhouse from Grey Havens to Umbar, I suspect. (Youngest sons and all that. I could have wished my own lot were as carefree. I take leave to wonder if his father has any idea.) He seemed most eager to join us upon hearing of our errand, and, not wanting to turn down another useful sword, invited him to accompany us. _

_I hammered upon the Harbor Master's door for some time, and it turns out he was in—about eight cups in if you take my meaning and before noon, at that. Bleary eyed but was sober enough to inform us that the vessel we sought had not yet weighed anchor, he was able—barely—to produce the ship's manifest and tell us which berth along the quay the Slippery When Wet (Yes, that was indeed her name.) lay at her rest._

_We hadn't much time. The Anduin is a tidal river, meaning that for part of its southern length its flow and level are influenced by the tides. All ships entering or exiting the river port of Pelargir must do so at high tide. Only then can larger trading ships and cargo vessels with their deeper drafts and heavier tonnage navigate the river without risk of dragging bottom and running aground. With high tide rapidly approaching, we raced down the quay. The longshoremen working the docks hardly noticed us as we passed, busy as they were with their own work. They are accustomed to soldiers on the docks; the main fleet of the Gondorian navy also being harbored in the vicinity._

_Finally, some distance away, we came in sight of our quarry, her name emblazoned across the bow in a bright red script, representative of legitimate shipping vessels. I found this both interesting and alarming, questioning the legitimacy of the intelligence—pirates, you see, would never stamp their ships with such identifiable characteristics. Amrothos, young and hard headed, was not so convinced and we split up, he leading half the men, I the other, taking inconspicuous refuge around the dockside warehouses, all of us squatting ignominiously like women behind barrels of salt beef or twined bales of cotton. _

_Sea going pirates (not to be confused with land going pirates, of which your dastardly al Din appears to be one) have a look different from that of legitimate seamen. They have the darkly tanned skin of deep water sailors and the same tar dipped pig tails, but there is something else, less definable, maybe a shiftiness of the eyes, or a sinister stance of posture (believing everyone as immoral and corrupt as they), or an aura of blackness about them that your more highly attuned, but less understood senses register. It was certain to this man's eye that these men certainly were pirates, respectable ship or no. Not for the first time, I began to doubt the Harbor Master's competency. _

_There were few in the way of crew, only enough to manage rigging and sails, pirates having no need for pursers (__an officer on a ship who handles financial accounts and various documents relating to the ship and who keeps money and valuables for passengers__)__ or ship's surgeons or supercargoes (__officer who is in charge of the cargo and the commercial concerns of the voyage)—definitions provided for your land loving ignorance._

_As we watched, the sailors were just beginning the arduous chore of casting off, raising the great slime coated anchor chain, the sound of it like dry bones grating together, and lugging huge mooring ropes as thick around as my leg over the gunnels. _

_You know, I never cared over much for boats or the sea for that matter, as my mother did, and after this event, my disinclination had been reaffirmed. I often wonder why my father didn't banish me to the perilous life of a naval officer in the Royal Fleet just to spite me._

_Fearful of being discovered and losing our opportunity for surprise, on my signal we fell on the bastards, racing up the gangway and leaping on deck. They were stunned by our abrupt presence, scattering and disordered, but only momentarily. These were desperate men and desperate men do desperate things, trapped like rats as they were. Regrouping, they fought us with whatever weapons they had to hand, marlin spikes, lengths of wet or tarred rope, knives or axes. Amid the ship board chaos of the brawl—it couldn't be deemed as anything but—one of their signaling lanterns was knocked over and a great hot stink rose up along with a whoosh of oil fueled flame. I tell you, Eomer, knowing as I did that there was likely several tons of black powder aboard, I had nightmarish visions of our floating down the river as a burning fireship, crashing into the Gondorian naval fleet, and setting every ship anchored there ablaze just before exploding into the sky like one of Gandalf's over large fire works!_

_As you can tell by my penning of this letter, we did not explode in a shower of splintered spares and rigging, but you may well wish that I had by the end of this tale and not just because of my longwindedness. _

_Again, I will not recount all that happened as it would take too long—we will undoubtedly discuss it when we meet—save that you should know the battle was bloody and vicious, the pirates doing themselves credit, fighting to the death. Greatly upset as I was by this—all along intending to take them alive for interrogation as prisoners of the crown—I dare say, there was little for them to do otherwise. _

_Subsequently, the fire having been extinguished with the assistance of a barrel of water, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dirty looking flash and heard a thump, as if something heavy had dropped out of the rigging. Then another flash of color, some shouts and two loud splashes, one follow close behind the other. Coming to the railing, I looked down to see Amrothos struggling in the water with a flailing heap of what appeared from my vantage point to be a bundle of dirty rags, but what really turned out to be a single living pirate, the source of the thump I had heard, who had hid in the rigging during the fight. Unsure at this point who was trying to drown whom, and somewhat concerned they might get swept along with the tide, I also dove in. Fortunately, I was dressed for riding and not battle or I would have sunk like a stone. _

_Amrothos's temper seemed to be getting the better of him as he swam towards the quay, towing the man with his arm around the other's throat. Hauled gasping and sputtering out the river, the prisoner sneered and appeared to be about to say something to Amrothos when my cousin punched him square in the jaw, cocking him cold and limp as a fish. Reprimands have little effect on men like Amrothos, so, with a sigh, I put him in charge of the prisoner and sent them off with half a dozen of my men. _

_Dripping, I extracted the ship's manifest and went below. _

_The black powder was there, loosely packed into and disguised as casks of wine, as were the weapons, swords, knives, a few axes, all crafted of high quality Gondorian steel. There was even some legitimate cargo as listed on the manifest, iron mongery and hides, just to fill in the cracks—the savvy trader al Din is, he wouldn't want to miss an opportunity to add to his fortune. Ships are expensive to sail, no matter the crew. But there was also a cargo aboard that was neither listed nor expected. Thirty two girls and twelve boys, all young, under the age of seventeen, chained, half clad, and huddled together, scared out of their wits. Some with odd accents, having been taken from far up the coast. The girls were all fresh, untouched, able, therefore, to command higher prices at auction in the south, or so I'm told. The boys seemed well enough to my untrained eye, but… Well, what boy or man would admit to having his asshole forcibly stretched. _

_Before I go on, brother, let me ease your mind. For all that you may learn in this letter, I know, though you will deny it, you suffer from an unfailing abundance of compassion and your primary concern will be for these children. Rest assured, I have done what I could for them, and will see they are each returned home, if one should still exist for them. _

_My suspicions about the Harbor Master's competency were confirmed. He is charged with enforcing the rules and laws of the port and checking each ship's papers to its respective manifest for the express purpose of stopping these sorts of illegal and immoral practices. Having failed in both his duties, I marched back to his headquarters, only to find the bugger trying to make a quick get away! Generally possessed of an even temperament, I was angry as a shaken up hornet in a bottle and raced after the blighter, knocking him into the river. Lugging his brandy reeking rear end out before he became a victim of drowning, incensed, I made threats of both a verbal and physical nature that the Rohirric kings of old would have appreciated. To borrow an expression from Sam Gamgee's gaffer, the old villain wouldn't admit to any forms of bribery, but I take leave to doubt his ability to afford the ten carat diamond on his finger or the expensive brandy he was drinking on a Harbor Master's pay._

_It was well after dark by the time I stumbled into the naval barracks and what with the long ride, the pirate battle, the Harbor Master, and all that was to do with the ship, its cargo, and the dead pirates, I decided to seek my bed and some well deserved rest before any interview or confrontation with the pirate. This is an action that I now regret. In my defense, I can only say I wished to be alert and coherent for the coming interrogation, lest the wily old sea dog get the better of me._

_I was awakened this morning by a vigorous shaking and told to report post haste to the brig. Half dressed, I pushed my way through a crowd of men loitering about one of the cells. There, hanged by the neck from the timbered beams overhead, was the pirate, dead, his name and his purpose forever unknown. It was suicide, or so it appears..._

_A search of the dock storehouses turned up nothing suspicious or incriminating. Neither did a ride to the location suspected of producing the black powder. We found nothing there but a burned out shell of a barn, partially collapsed and smoldering. _

_I fear apologizing, as it will sound insincere and be of little use of consolation. Cousin Amrothos tells me it is not my fault, and yet…_

_And yet we have managed to impede the delivery of a large supply of weaponry into the hands of those who would do us harm. Amrothos, far more well traveled than I, has had a look at the ship's manifest and the other papers found in the Captian's office. He informs me that the ship's registry—the papers citing the ship's home port—is a forgery and is certainly not the port of Dol Amorth. _

_My only regret is the dead pirate. I wish we could have learned more. No doubt, this voyage had been commissioned by al Din, or on his behalf, but where was it bound? For what purpose are these weapons and explosives intended? They—whoever they are—are planning something, but what, against whom and to what end? Now that their plans have been spoiled, will they desist permanently or merely regroup and try again._

_As I pen this missive, sitting here in the evening gloaming, I am having difficulty expunging the sorry sight of those children, filthy, starving and scared, from my memory. The abduction and trade of innocents I find truly upsetting. I have seen much in my years—war, hate, killing, despair, betrayal—far more than I had ever wished. I have participated in some of these acts and, still, I am still amazed by the levels of brutality some men are capable of perpetrating, the extent to which they will go to achieve their means. _

_I ramble in an unsuccessful attempt to make my point. _

_This is not in any way like our previous conflict. Then, we knew our enemies and all who wished to do us harm. We knew from where they commanded their armies, knew their homelands. We could prepare ourselves for battle, or take the battle to them. In this new battle? We can't be certain who our enemies are. Fighting these men, this Cult of Sauron, is like fighting feathers, or trying to grapple with mist. How does one wage war against a secret society? No longer do we fight people with ties and loyalty to a fixed location. It is a battle waged solely on ideologies._

_I'm reminded of a rather picturesque analogy from the forests of Mirkwood; something about the unpredictability of dwarves with rotten teeth. We might say: when a man's morals decay, he becomes dangerous. _

_Clearly, the man or men involved here have considerable wealth. Bribery and broadswords and barrels of black powder on that scale require a considerable amount of capital. There are not so many wealthy men left in Gondor and it is entirely possible that these men consort with us daily or hold positions of power or influence—a truly frightening thought. I believe and Amrothos concurs, there is a traitor in our midst. _

_I fear we can trust no one, save those closest to us and the ones we love. _

_Some men are born great. Others have it thrust upon them. Alas, that we should have been born unto these times, both so unprepared to wield the iron fist of another's destiny. We two, brought into this world at the end of an age where war was inevitable, come into our greatness at the beginning of another where peace is improbable. _

_The night and this tale grow long, and I weary with the telling. We will speak again when next we meet. Until then, brother, safe journeys. _

_Your Servant, Sir, _

_F._

_Post Scriptum:_

_If you find your secretary so invaluable, I suggest you bring her with you. Mine are all too afraid of you. _

XXX

Loti was bent over her desk later that week, neatly scratching down the yet another day's events in the log book when the flaps of the tent's entrance twitched and a familiar stentorian voice boomed, "Well, if it isn't the little brown sparrow! So our Rooster hasn't chased you off yet! Good to see!"

"Elfhelm! How nice to see you again!" she beamed in pleasant surprise and leaning back in her chair. All the small coils of strain knotted in her upper back and shoulders unbunched with the movement. Her fingers were sore from gripping the quill for so long and she was feeling the first twinges of a headache from all the close work so it wasn't just his unexpected appearance that made her happy to see him. "How are you?"

"Not as young as I used to be." The big barrel-chested Marshal of the Mark stomped some of the dust from his boots and rubbed a hand over his equally dusty armor leaving streaks and smudges on the thick, reinforced leather. "A horrible dry and dusty place. Except when it rains. Then it's a gnat infested sweat box," he muttered. Wandering inside, he casually examined the sparsely furnished interior. "Not exactly the comforts of home in here, is it?" Stopping at Eomer's desk, he picked up a stone ale jar, sniffed at it and drank, thirstily absorbing the beer as if he were a dried up sponge.

"Help yourself," Loti said, dryly.

"Don't mind if I do!" Elfhelm let out a little relieved sigh, wiping droplets of ale from the ends of his mustache. "I come all this way and he hasn't he got anything better than this?"

"Hmm," she pinched the corners of her mouth, trying to hide a smile. "The big drawer. Third one down."

He exclaimed in pleasure, finding a stashed bottle of what Eomer said was brandy, pulled the cork with his teeth and took several healthy gulps, ending with an explosive, "Ah!"

"Aides in the digestion, you know," he noted, seeing her watching him, "That is, when a man has sustenance available to him."

"Mmhmm," she said again, "Top drawer."

Elfhelm jerked open the top drawer, produced and apple, ate it in three bites and tossed the core out the door. Then, taking the brandy bottle with him, he flopped heavily onto Eomer's bed, wriggling a bit into the feather mattress as the wooden frame protested beneath, a fine cloud of reddish brown dust rising up all around. He groaned loudly, wallowing in ecstasy, rubbing his large stomach. "Good gods, I haven't slept in a proper bed in months! So, what's there to do round these parts?"

"Do?" She wrinkled one eyebrow.

"For entertainment." Seeing she still didn't understand, he said, "Women, my good lassie! Preferably loose ones. What else?"

She shook her head definitively, touching a light hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. "Sorry to disappoint you but no whores in camp."

"No whores?" repeated Elfhelm in puzzlement. "Well the men can't like that." He was pretty much speaking to himself before demanding, "On whose authority?"

"Mine," she said with a smile.

"Yours? Elves' Teeth! Who's running this operation?"

"I'd like to think I am," said a man at the door with a voice like burned molasses. Lowering his head, Eomer came inside, the outline of his body dark against the bright blue-black rain clouds of a fading afternoon. He squinted one eye at her in a quick playful wink before turning back to tease his friend. "But I think it's pretty obvious who is."

"Well, that's very sensible of you, Rooster. Always let a woman think she's in charge, that's what I say. It'll save you lots of headaches when you're married. But no whores, man?" He half propped himself up on one elbow to follow Eomer, upper half clad in nothing a fine layer of sweat streaked dirt, as he strolled behind his desk. "You've got this pretty little thing here to take care of you, but what should the rest of us be doing when we want a bit of womanly comfort?"

"Well, whatever you're going to be doing, don't do it here. I don't want your old man spunk in my bed. It's bad enough you've got your dirty boots on it! Ghaw! Have you got no consideration at all?"

Elfhelm swiveled his attention back to Loti. "Will you listen to him!" He hooked a thumb in Eomer's direction. "Old man, pah!" Then more confidentially, added, "These young ones…one quick dip and their all done. No stamina in them at all. Now, what you want to look for, lassie, is a stallion. Not so much in how quick he gets his business done, mind, but a man you know you can ride all night long!"

Loti giggled, fingers held daintily to her lips.

Eomer went red in the face, momentarily scandalized. "Don't make me regret asking you to come down here," he said grumpily. He sat down in his chair and pulling off first one large boot and then the other. His long, toes waggled as he propped his feet on the desk to air them, the calloused soles dirty and discolored.

"Why _are_ you here?" she wondered aloud.

Elfhelm shot an accusatory eyeball at his protégé. "You didn't tell her?"

"Of course I told her," snapped Eomer.

"Tell me what?"

"That his sister's getting married."

"Well, I already knew that," Loti drawled.

"I'm here to relieve him, lassie" Elfhelm explained, patiently.

"Oh…" she breathed, her little flame of understanding, dimmed by so many monotonous hours letter writing and other extraneous bookwork, instantaneously flaring up like it had been madly worked by a bellows. "You mean we're leaving soon."

"Now," Eomer proclaimed.

"Now!" She fairly squeaked the word.

"Well it would've been sooner if someone would've showed up when he was supposed to." A meaningful glare settled on the Marshal who, unruffled, rustled the bedding as he shrugged.

"Can't blame a man for his tardiness when he's got work to do."

Meanwhile, Loti, uninterested in these trivialities, popped out of her chair as if suddenly realizing she'd been sitting on a cactus, a flurry of hands simultaneously blotting and sanding, wiping residual ink off the quill, re-corking the inkpot, straightening papers and other things, and snuffing out the candle before making a hasty dash out the door.

XXX

"And send the boy to me!" Eomer called after her.

He listened to Loti's continued expostulations about what she was going to pack for the trip and how she had nothing to wear even after her explosion out the door left the canvas flaps wavering. She only had one extra change of clothes, so he didn't suppose her packing would be that arduous.

"Such a nice girl," Elfhelm murmured.

"Mmm." This was one of his more ambiguous hums. Pulling open the bottom drawer of his desk, Eomer stirred a hand through the varied contents searching for his brandy. Then he heard a tinkling slosh of liquid and looked up to see Elfhelm, bottle in hand, glugging away. Damn. He really could have done with a drink.

Elfhelm stretched, luxuriating upon the bed, joints popping in time to the creaking of the frame. "So, she's really going to do it, huh? She's really going to marry that Gondorian fop?"

"He's not a fop and you know it, ya old jackal. I like him. And they're good for each other."

"Mmhmm," said the prostrate form from the bed, "If you say so."

"I do say so."

The other man waved a goading hand. "You're the king."

"I am," Eomer agreed and shut the drawer with authority.

He leaned back in his chair, rocking back on two legs, and, finding a knife under a scatter of papers, began to clean the dirt out from underneath his nails.

"Gods, I can hardly believe she's that old," Elfhelm continued, unperturbed, "I can still remember her as a baby running through your folks' house bare assed and without a stitch on. She had the finest, fairest head of blonde hair. Always sticking up like a rooster's comb."

"Well, don't go spreading that story around." With no one watching, Eomer smiled to himself. "Better her than me. She knows I hate all this ceremony. She should've eloped like our folks did."

"Think your own wedding will be small, do you? Think again." Elfhelm chuckled, low and rumbling. "Don't fool yourself, Rooster. Your turn is coming."

After a brief silence where Eomer was keenly aware of the rustle of wind through the grass, he asked, "Are you certain you don't want to come? Wynnie would like to see you. I could find someone else to take command."

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Elfhelm laboriously heaved himself into a sitting position, wordless, as if he were considering the proposal, his expression mildly pensive. Finally, he said, "No. I thank you, though. I've been to a fair number of weddings in my day. Besides, you need somebody in charge down here who knows what they're doing. Weddings are for young people. Don't worry about us. I'll take care of everything."

"And exactly how old do you think I am, old man?"

Elfhelm snorted, his heavy Rohirric accent prominent, "A lot younger than me laddie. Go and have a good time."

Eomer glance up from his barbaric manicure, watching Elfhelm scratch vigorously at the back of his head. A cloud of road dust and possibly lice drifted out of the mass of reddish brown hair, settling on his shoulders. Elfhelm didn't resemble his father, Eomund, in any way beyond the typically Rohirric characteristics of height and fair coloring, but he had been just as much a figure of fatherly guidance to Eomer as he had been to his own sons.

"Ever think you'll get married again?" he asked, seriously.

"Me? Nah." His head shook. "I'm not Eothain, am I. There was only ever one woman for me and there'll never be another like her."

"How long has it been, old man?" He wasn't sure why he asked, he already knew the answer.

"Been? With a woman you mean? Oh, ten years at least. Why do you ask?"

He made a small movement of dismissal, as if it wasn't important.

"Uh-huh." His eyes, creased by age and sun and heartache and joy cut towards Eomer. "Well, Rooster, I don't mind so much. I've got sons and daughters aplenty. But not all of us were meant to sleep alone. Give your sister a kiss for me, eh?"


	20. Chapter 20 Return of the King

A/N: Hey again everybody. Thanks for all the nice reviews! I'm glad that you seemed to like the last chapter, especially the part with Faramir's letter. That was fun to write. I have to tell you though, the last few months, as a writer, have been tough. I took a course through one of the RWA chapters lead by a pub'd author who I will refer to as the Destroyer. I found her teaching style to be rather harsh and very very critical and it really rocked my self confidence. At the start, I wrote about 9000 words of this chapter in two weeks. That's alot for me considering I only write about three hours a day, maybe. L8Bleumer, who posts here, on Faerie and LOTRFF was extremely helpful in getting my head and confidence straightened out again. I highly reccomend her stuff! If you like my story, you might like hers called Journey of a Butterfly about a Rohirrim woman and a half elf. It's very good. It's romantic suspense-ish.

One of my reviewers, I don't know who off the top of my head, said that this story doesn't seem to have enough plot, or maybe too many filler chapters. The review and critique are appreciated. As to the plot, though, if anything, this story has too much plot. I see now how stories mushroom out and get too big. Also, as many of you may know, I've never written anything before. Ever. So I do like to try different things, if only as a challenge to myself, because, really, I have no idea what I'm doing. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. Not every writer is good at every aspect of writing and I'll never know how to improve what I suck at and strengthen what i'm good at if I don't practice and experiment. Writing is not so much an art as a craft. Something you have to do over and over and over and over again to the point of insanity sometimes. And I know now that it can drive you to the point where you think you are nuts. I understand why guys like Hemingway drank heavily and snorted coke.

I always like to recommend books too. In the last couple of months, I've been reading Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter Series. Holy shit! It's awesome!

As always, please leave a review at the bottom. It's the only reward I get for dragging myself up off the ground, picking up the remaining shreds of my self confidence and continuing to pursue a dream.

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Part II: Love & Marriage

Late October, Somewhere in Ithilien

The first fingers of dawn spread out from behind the mountains of Ephel Duath, cheerfully gilding those depressing dark peaks in pretty pinks and violets and lending the forest beneath a quality of unreality. In that weird, harsh metallic light, like the crude paintings of an unskilled artist, the only discernible dimensions were height and width. Its depth was not really physical, but more of a thing that could be sensed, like the ancientness of this place.

"Did ye ever think you'd see something like that coming from over there?" Eoin wondered with a shake of his head. His voice was low and raspy with exhaustion, with gratitude. Rhetorical in nature, his question was followed by a meditative silence disturbed only by the wakeful chirping of birds and other rustling, scurrying sounds of the woods.

Below where they sat, atop a small rise, were shadowed hillsides covered in trees and shallow u-shaped hollows filled with pale golden mist rising up like fairy dust. Raising a hand to shade her eyes, Minas Tirith was much easier to see now, just beginning to glow with that same dimensionless light, its great white walls and many levels sticking out sharp and brilliant as the facets of a crystal.

Somebody next to her, probably Aric, sighed. "Bed."

Eoin patted his gurgling paunch with a hand. "You take to your bed, man. Myself I need sustenance. I can sleep when I'm dead. Which I will be if we don't get down there pretty soon."

There was general agreement on that when Eothain said, "Nah, lads, you got it all wrong." He beetled his brows, pointing at Minas Tirith with his chin. "Who needs sleep or food when there's hundreds of kegs of beer down there just waiting to be tapped!"

To no one's surprise, beer was a Rohirric man's top priority.

Beer, beds, and food aside, Loti would, at this moment, do anything to get off this horse. Although, when it came to it, she wasn't exactly sure if she could get her abused rear end out of the saddle without help; a humiliating prospect. Maybe, she could just tumble out along the way…

Unused to riding for long periods of time as she was, the lower portions of her anatomy still ached, even after nearly a week in the saddle. The trek north, unlike the springtime trip south, had been uneventful, but the forest of Ithilien had been strangely eerie, as though some unseen autumnal spirit of the woods kept pace with them. No longer cloaked in its green glory, it wore a new wardrobe of gold and red and brown. Bare limbs of trees and bushes rattled together in the breeze and dried leaves, a foot thick in some spots, made sounds like the crumpling of paper under the horses' hooves.

Her belief that something was out there was not assuaged when, one night Wolf and Eoin took turns telling her stories of mythical tree herders roaming unchecked in the northern portions of Rohan and entire forests that moved as if by magic in the night.

The weather, for the most part, had cooperated, being a sort of cloudy dull gray for the last few days. That was until yesterday when a cold rain fell, drenching them, and a northern wind boomed through tree tops, whipping cloaks and chilling even the heaviest of bearded cheeks. With no such facial adornments, Loti had sat dripping but uncomplaining as they plodded slowly through the mud of the road, until Eomer, catching a glimpse of her, took her up in the saddle before him, wrapping them both in his green woolen cloak that, if not precisely water proof, still held in their heat even when wet. Since the mud and chilly rain had slowed them considerably, Eomer pushed the men—consisting of not only Eoin and Aric and Eothain, but, also, Wolf, Theofrid, the twins, Bram and Gram, and Eomer's sleepy eyed pet project, Mel—on through the night.

Now, with the earthy smells of moldy leaves and moist bark behind them, the hospitality of Gondor lay no more than a few miles away. Mud splattered and damp, the Men of the Mark weren't the only ones glad to see some kind of civilization. Loti, herself, was looking forward to a hot meal and, with luck, a hot bath.

She let her gaze settle on Eomer, who sat in profile against the western sky, relaxed in the saddle, squinting against the rising sun. The day was unusually warm for autumn; a warm southern wind stirred the unbraided portions of his sun bright blonde head just as it blew through the grass about the horses' knees. Quiet for the last few days, he'd worn a look of distance, of inward thought as he did now, not speaking any more than necessary. She saw his shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh as he stared up towards the city. Oblivious to all but his own thoughts, now, he seemed tired, among other things.

"Well? Are we gonna sit here gawking at the place or we gonna go down there?" Eoin wanted to know.

"Hmm?" Eomer blinked, then said more confidently, "Mmhmm." A change, like the switching of night into day, slowly came over him and his strong white teeth showed suddenly in the wilderness of his week's worth of untrimmed beard.

Two large gold coins appeared in Eomer's hand and he rubbed them together with a metallic rasping sound. Eight pairs of greed eyes regarded him, waiting. If there was one thing the Rohirrim loved—well…if there was one thing they loved as much as drinking, telling stories, horses, horse racing, or fighting, it was gambling.

He issued the challenge. "First man to cross the river wins an extra week's wages."

"Your money's running away from you," she told Eomer a moment later, raucous curses and the thundering of hooves drifting back up the hill.

"Mmm." He shrugged, smiling without much humor. "Wouldn't be right to win my own bet, would it?" Apparently, in no hurry to be off himself, his body language was increasingly uncomfortable. After a brief pause, where he almost seemed to forget she was there, he sniffed and turned to her, eyes the same pale blue as the sky above. "Still doing alright?"

"Other than I'm still wet and cold and my backside it numb, I'm perfectly fine." No red blooded man of the Riddermark would ever complain about being saddle sore, but Loti was neither a man nor much of a horsewoman.

She expected him to come back with some crude joke or indecent proposition. He didn't—unusual, indeed. "E? Are _you_ doing alright?" Straight and stiff as a fence post, he didn't sit the saddle with his normal graceful ease. He was awfully distracted and tense, like a rope tied up in knots. "Nervous?"

He inhaled deeply through his nose and it was only then she realized he had been holding his breath. "Let's just get this over with," he said and gave his mount a nudge.

A little while later, their group reassembled, they began the final few miles of their journey, hooting with laughter and telling insensitive jokes about the comparative size of thumbs to other appendages until they passed a large grassy hump, set low but prominent in the near distance, ringed in a tribute of spears. An old proverb formed in Loti's mind without conscious thought. _Remember man, thou art made from the dust of the earth, and unto dust thou shalt return. _The day was by no means cold—the sun was full up by now, warm and welcome as a blanket on her back and the day promised to be as fine as any—but she shivered nonetheless. Pulling the collar of her leather coat tighter, Loti looked hastily away and rode on.

In time, they reached the city's temporary main gate, a grossly unattractive, cross timbered monstrosity. Loti was yawning and stretching in the saddle—and hoping these people knew how to make a good cup of coffee—when the crotchety tones of a voice overhead demanded, "Who goes there? Friend or Foe?"

All eyes swiveled up to a square window at the top of the south gate house where a head had popped up like a gopher out of a hole. The remarkable gopher like resemblance of the face was enhanced by the man's vigorous chewing and the twitching, crumb strewn mustache. Evidently, they'd interrupted the man's breakfast.

Wolf, the highest ranking officer present, had the honor of speaking for Eomer.

"Friends of your King!" he bellowed upward. "Foes certainly wouldn't come knocking at the front gate," he added, under his breath.

"Friends of the King?" the gopher repeated, swallowed, and, smacking his lips, squinted down at them in a mildly condescending fashion, "And what kind of friends is it that arrive unannounced and bearing no banner? There's all kinds of queer folk about nowadays wanting to get in here. How do I know you're not one of them?"

Wolf's lips rose, baring his teeth in a dog-like snarl. He had little patience for insubordination, no matter whose army they served in. "Don't you know Riders of the Riddermark when you see them, man?"

Meanwhile, the pointed bolt of a cross bow was easing out of the window and a second head appeared, this one much younger and wearing an over sized helm that kept slipping down over his eyes. Sunlight reflecting off of both polished helmets was eye searing.

The angle of the cross bow inclined, coming to bear on Wolf. Loti noticed, as Wolf plainly did, the boy's unsteady trigger finger.

"Careful with that, boy," he warned, "You don't want it to go off by accident!"

"If it goes off, it won't be by accident," gopher face said nastily, showing two prominent front teeth and leaning further out the window in an attempt to seem more menacing.

Wolf was turning an unhealthy reddish purple in the face, like an eggplant. Livid with indignation at this effrontery, he rose up straight in the saddle, salt and pepper beard bristling.

Aric, looking, as usual, as if he'd just crawled out of a rubbage heap, rolled his eyes skyward. "Here we go," he mumbled.

"Impertinent son of a pig swiving whore!" Wolf barked, "You insult your king's honor and my own! Do you have any idea who you're talking to here?"

Loti kept both eyes trained on the boy's twitchy trigger finger. If it should move the and cross bow go off… This little confrontation had international incident written all over it!

"No. And I don't give a fig about the honor of fat, barbarian dog."

"Fat barbarian dog!" He made some sort of belligerent rumbling noise in the back of his throat. One couldn't help wondering if Wolf was more upset about the fat, the barbarian or the dog part of the insult. His sharply pointed eye teeth flashed again. "Well if we're not who we say we are, then who are we?"

"I don't know and I don't care neither. If you're such good friends with His Majesty the King, then tell me what the password is, or be gone with you!"

"Password? I've got your password right here you—" A certain hand gesture followed.

Eomer rocked back and forth in the saddle, irritated, Loti noted, but unwilling to insult Wolf by interrupting.

This verbal war of wills probably would've gone on for some time had another voice from above not interrupted with, "Carfor, what's the trouble here?" and a third more competent looking head manifested itself between the other two.

Wolf pointed a thick jointed finger at the third. "You, man! Have this weasel faced limp prick open this gate!"

The gopher turned to the third, complaining. "Limp prick, do you hear him?"

Squeezing between gopher face and shaky trigger finger, the third man, who must have been their superior officer, leaned a hand on the window sill to get a closer look at Wolf and his rough companions below. His eyes rested on each of them in turn, as though assessing their intentions, until his stare landed on Eomer. He briefly looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach, mouthed a silent curse, pulled his head back inside and clouted both his inferiors in the ear.

"You are a limp prick, Carfor. Don't you know that's the King of Rohan down there? A moment, my lords," he poked his head out the widow again, "and we'll have you inside."

"I thank you, sir!" Wolf called as the guards disappeared from the window, the insolent Carfor spluttering excuses and ineffectual apologies. Business taken care of, he nodded decisively at Eomer, feeling wholly justified by the reverberant sounds of heads being bitten off inside the gatehouse.

"Well done, Wolf," Eoin complimented. "You were very persistent."

Wolf no longer looked as if he were going to have an apoplectic fit. "Ah, well, you know what they say. Persistence is a virtue."

Just then a shout came from the other side of the wall, clear and loud as the ringing of a bell. "Open the gate! Open the gate for the King of Rohan!"

The order was taken up in turn, borne high on the wind, rising like the circles of the city. "Open the gates!" "Open the gates for EomerKing!" "Open the gates!"

Loti lifted her face to the sky, trying to see the highest part of the city, the citadel at the top, nearly a thousand feet above, but the glare of the sun on white rock was too harsh and the cut back of the city too great. Gazing up, marveling in wonderment at the labor and dedication it took to build such a place, the city itself made her feel small and insubstantial and yet, simultaneously, because it was made of the mountain, she strangely felt part of something bigger than herself—more important—as if this place could withstand all but the ravages of time. It felt right to be here somehow. Right in a way which she'd never know before, or could explain easily. Like coming home to a place you hadn't seen for years.

There was a crash and a subsequent shudder jarred the thick timbered structure as the bolt was lifted, and the great gate slowly, very slowly, swung in. Its heavily burdened iron hinges creaked and groaned with a sound like a frightened cow stuck in a bog.

Eomer glanced at Loti sheepishly, his face tinged slightly pink, like a little boy who'd just wet himself accidentally. In return, she gave in him the faintest of reassuring smiles. He went forward then, to take his place at the head of their party, mastering himself, sitting tall in the saddle, proud as Morgoth, fierce as Bema and Loti entered the ancient city, conceived and by the men of Nuemenor, in the shadow of a Rohirric king.

XXX

In spite of its egomaniacal design and precarious situation—carved out of the side of a mountain—Minas Tirith was not unlike most cities Loti decided as they rounded the first of many levels, passing through that level's single small gate.

There were taverns and brothels—especially on the lower levels were the bulk of the less desirable trades were located—smelling strongly of hops from their beer making, and tanneries, giving off the horrible eye watering reek of their art. The infamous Lampwright's Street was a veritable den of iniquity. One window in five was swagged in red, lit from within by lamps and attracting men like moths to those glowing crimson flames. Less frequently seen than taverns were the apothecary's shops', with their strange displays of dried toads and liquid suspended specimens, vaguely monster-like in resemblance. Other buildings sported less strange tenants; a chandler, a dealer of exotic textiles, a tea house. Down one street she heard the rhythmic _tang, tang, tang_ of a blacksmith's hammer and saw the thin plume of smoke from his forge stream up, disintegrating in the breeze. Down another street was a sign in the shape of a boot; the cobbler shop.

The Rohirrim talked to each other, rowdy and boisterous, pointing out some oddity or thing of interest or making fun of someone in their own barbarous tongue while the echoing clip-clop of the horse's hooves gradually mixed with the other city sounds. The further they went, the more the city seemed to stretch, its inhabitants waking with the day. People began popping up like toadstools, as if the announcement of Eomer's arrival had been a magical conjuration of some kind.

A bakery door swung open with a thud and the yeasty damp fragrance of fresh baked bread wafted out. Loti's stomach gurgled softly in time to several other digestive rumblings nearby, reminding her that none of them had eaten yet this morning.

"A good morning too you, my lord!" the baker called out jovially before jamming his armload of crusty baguettes into a wicker basket outside his door. Evidently recognizing Eomer as some man of importance—if not knowing him purely by sight—the baker took two of these and handed them to Eomer with a gracious bow and went back inside, doorbells tinkling.

Giving them a dispassionate look, Eomer thrust the bread unceremoniously at Wolf. He couldn't eat a thing, he said. Anxiety always gave him cramp.

Inquisitive crowds began to form, all earnestly trying to be the first of their acquaintances to catch a glimpse of EomerKing and he was regarded with esteem equal to that of their own king, it seemed.

"How do you do, my lord?"

"Welcome back!"

"Good morning, sir!"

"A pleasant day to you, my lord!"

Each of these pleasantries was customarily followed by a brief sort of salute, a slight bow or the cordial doffing of worn slouch hats.

Barrowmen, busy hustling the fruits and vegetables from their carts, stopped expounding of the freshness of their items long enough to shout their own greetings of hello and good will.

A slattern of indeterminate age but of distinctly large girth shoved a pair of broad shoulders through an apartment window over head, a braided rug in her hand, ready for shaking. Her stony countenance cracked as she grinned, exposing an indeterminate amount of teeth, but she waved a hand expansively in greeting, calling a pair of dark eyed children to the window who waggled their arms obediently at the scary looking men.

Women were especially taken with Eomer and Loti could understand why. Tall and handsomely exotic by Gondorian standards, he had the supreme air of a man who knew himself to be a warrior. From their stalls, flower girls offered him bouquets of hothouse roses or posies of wildflowers. Young maids waved shyly from balconies, tittering like nervous birds behind their hands. One woman, possessed of significantly less restraint, shoved her baby into Eomer's face to be kissed. Another, even more bold, proposed marriage, indelicately demonstrating exactly what marriage to her might entail. Fair skinned even under the sun weathered color of his tan, his ears blazed pink. A nobleman by birth, Eomer was raised to have nice manners and bore these attentions with grace and politeness, no matter how crude their advances might be.

It was the looks the whores gave him that Loti didn't care for. Standing oh-so-provocatively outside their respective establishments baring long expanses of thigh and heaving swells of creamy bosom, they eyed him with greedy appreciation, as if he were a stud bull, capable of supporting the economic needs of the brothel—and the carnal needs of its women—for an entire year or more! Fortunately, Eomer seemed too preoccupied with other matters to accommodate such needs at the moment, thank the gods.

The horses, good war beasts they were, continued the long climb, oblivious to the increasing street traffic and noisy children who pulled on their tails or darted like fish around the multiple churning legs.

Loti lagged behind once, about half way up the fourth level, reining Thrys in outside a dressmaker's shop. The shop's assistant was busily arranging the pleats of a lovely white gown over a headless dress form. A swelling of self consciousness made Loti glance down briefly. Filthy from a week on the road, rumpled from sleeping on the ground, wearing britches and riding astride, her heart ached with the knowledge that she was no lady. The dress was a silly thing to want—the way the Rohirrim lived it would stay clean for all of two minutes—but once, just once, she'd like to be a lady. Just once she'd like to be special, seen for more than just outer beauty. Just once she'd like to make Eomer proud.

From behind the large window, the girl, feeling Loti's eyes on her, smiled brightly and twinkled her fingers in a wave. Loti, caught staring, blushed and spurred up, finding the reflection of her head perched above the neckline of the dress where the dummy's head should have been, rather disconcerting.

She'd been aware for some time that the city was under construction, or rather, reconstruction as the siege of Minas Tirith hadn't been kind to the old place. Thus, all the rebuilding had giving birth to a sort of Gondorian renaissance focusing on art and architecture and beauty of the old kingdoms.

The bulk of treadle wheel cranes loomed up everywhere, dark in contrast to the white façade of the city itself, blocks of stone and baskets of tools raised and lowered by nothing more than sheer manpower. Loti watched one of these cranes working farther up the street. Like pet rats, two men walked briskly inside the wheels, lifting a block of white stone with almost no effort whatsoever.

Often times, the men working these wheels high above the streets noticed the horsemen before anyone else, waving and hallooing as they worked. Occasionally workmen stopped what they were doing to step out into the street and shake hands or tell amusing anecdotes about fighting alongside Eomer during the War. Eomer was no braggart and swore all these stories were over exaggerations.

About the third or fourth time this happened, bored, hungry and sighing with weariness, Loti quickly lost interest. It felt like half the day had been spent meandering through excited crowds and the picturesque neighborhoods and winds of the lower city. Tossing back her head, she moaned in silent martyrdom. The angle of the sun said no more than two hours had passed.

Moving again—praise be to the Valar—Thrys suffered no such fatigue, high stepping merrily along behind the other horses, up a slight incline of stairs, past several stiff backed sentries bedecked in black and silver and beneath the arch of the final gatehouse. When she emerged out of the shadows and onto the main street of the sixth level, to Loti, it felt like entering an entirely new world, one she'd never dreamed to be part of.

No besieged tenements, many story apartments or single bedroom houses accommodating multiple families here. This was where the wealthiest and most influential citizens, the elite of Gondorian society resided, hiding behind the ornate gilded gates and elaborate gardens of their townhouses. Here, the long lost culture of Nuemenor continued to flourish, three thousand years after its destruction. Here, in Minas Tirith, the legacy of those men survived through traditions, politics, learning and, as she was sure to find out, Gondor's Court.

In an aristocratically superior way, everyone, from boot boy to baron, looked suitably bored as if unimpressed by their own importance, their faces pinched into a reserved dourness like puckered up like assholes. Eomer often wore that same expression himself and Loti began to wonder if it wasn't some sort of inheritable trait like hair color or height, or if it was just a look one acquired by association, like lice or a bad fever.

Loti enjoyed seeing the diversity of people as it made her feel less out of place. Gradually, her attention began to drift from whatever conversation the men were having—something called golf, invented by some crusty, old dwarf—losing herself, instead, in the world of these foreign but interesting people.

"Talagan, get that out of your mouth this instant!" chivied a nanny, leading her recalcitrant charges on their morning constitutional, "And if I catch you trying to put that up your sister's nose again…"

"…So pleased I am to meet your acquaintance, sirs…"

"…Look at that face, why don't you! What a charmer! Why I've never seen a baby so…"

Several other ragged ends of conversation were drowned out by an argument. "Would you just look at this! Such rotten fair! Not even fit for pigs!" A woman, heavy of bosom, leaned over the lower leaf of a split door, waggling what looked to be a shriveled up cucumber at a man. She was presumably the egregiously offended household cook and he, the unfortunate grocer. "I can't serve this to the mistress and her guests! It's unconscionable! Look here!" The cook grasped the cucumber with both hands and bent. It flexed quite unnaturally. "An old man's prick is more firm!"

"How would you know, madam?" The grocer inclined his nose. "With a face like yours I'm surprised any man would bed you." The cook reached behind her and began pelting the man with potatoes and rotten fruit.

Heads down, two young men, brushed her leg, swooping around the horses like a couple of low flying bats, the generous cut of their black scholar's robes flapping in the breeze.

Loti's roving eye caught sight of two women, fashionably begowned and just the other side of middle age, murmuring back and forth, heads close together, at the railing of a garden balcony.

While too far away to hear their actual voices, Loti was still a competent lip reader.

"Have you had one yet?" said one to the other, nodding at the procession of Rohirric virility.

"Had one? A Horse Lord, you mean? No. Have you?"

She shook her head in regret. "No, not yet. But I hear they're excellent lovers. Cocks like the trucks of oliphants. Or so Branneth says."

"I can believe it," said the other with a gaze of appreciative awe, "Just look at that tall one, in the lead. I wouldn't mind if he wanted to stable his horse in my barn. Too bad that he—"

Just as this piece of juicy gossip about to be imparted, a tall bit of shrubbery blocked her view and the pair disappeared as she rode by.

Damn! What was she about to say? Too bad that Eomer—What!

She didn't have much time to think any more about it as Thrys shouldered his way between the twins, deciding that Eoin's leg would make an excellent mid morning snack.

"Ah! Ye wicked beast!" Eoin thwapped his reins over the horse's huffing nostrils. "Do that again and I'll have your balls for a new purse!"

A few minutes later, having come to a stop in front of the House of Healing—a beautiful colonnaded stone structure done in the Anarionian style—Eomer saw Mel deposited into the capable hands of a Matron without much fuss. _Poor Mel_. The boy was desperate for news of his mother. She hoped it might be good news.

They hadn't gone very far up the street when they were delayed yet again, this time by a shout.

"Theo!"

In front of her, a yard's width of brown horse rump bunched as Theofrid halted the beast abruptly in the street. He whirled around in his saddle as if recognizing the voice.

It came again.

"Theofrid! Wait!"

Curious, now they all turned to see the source of the disturbance. Up the street ran a woman, skirts in one hand, baby in the other braced against her hip, petticoats churning in a lacey froth about her knees. She weaved with remarkable ease through the street's foot traffic despite the awkward burden of the baby. Breathless and slightly flushed from the uphill run, her voice was still strong, crying out the name once more. "Theo!"

Frowning, the man being beckoned, craned his neck to see. "Ariel?" he called back, but with a hint of doubt, as though he questioned his own eyes and ears. His knuckles were white where he gripped the reins which caused his horse to dance and back, bobbing his head up and down like a water ouzel.

"Theo! Please! Stop!"

Then a face altering joy lit her eyes when, finally, she caught sight of him atop his horse, taller than any other man. Like a spark to dry tinder, Loti saw the echo of her elation blaze up in Theofrid's own face, a fire instantly ignited by the fuel of hope.

"Ariel!" he bellowed, now sounding frantic. Theo didn't ask permission, nor did Loti think he cared what the others thought or what the consequences might be for breaking rank. Throwing his leg over the horse's neck, he slid from the saddle, and hit the ground running, charging towards her like a bull after the color red. He dodged a few idlers in the street and, arms spread wide from his sides, he cannoned into her with the exultant cry of a man whose long denied prayers have just been answered. Sweeping up both mother and baby, his momentum sent them spinning round in circles, her skirts whirling out as she was embraced, crushed to his chest in a bear-like hug. One arm locked about his bull-thick neck, she clung to Theofrid as ferociously as she did to her own child, his face buried in the mass of her thick brown curls, both of them either laughing or sobbing.

Loti needn't ask to know this was Theofrid's erstwhile lover.

Several assorted persons stopped to gawk or make scandalized faces, but the reunited pair didn't seem to notice the disturbance they had just caused.

"Ariel…" Theofrid said softly, after setting her back on solid ground. His hands gripped possessively on her slim waist as if afraid she might slip away from him, vanishing like a ghost in the dawn. "How…?" he began, frowning.

"One of the maids said she'd seen you in the street," she replied, still breathless from the run.

This Ariel person was tallish, for a woman, though still dwarfed by Theofrid's unnatural size. In spite of a light sprinkling or freckles over rosy cheeks and the bridge of her nose, she had the flawless skin and fine features of a lady and her equally fine clothes enhanced this impression. Her eyes and hair were the color of toffee drops, a kind of light brown with flecks and glints of gold in the sunlight.

She also had the carefree manner of young motherhood, deftly hoiking the baby onto her other hip, and, with her free hand, caressing Theofrid's cheek, stroking him with the intimacy of two people who had shared more than mere friendship. Loti felt like an intruder, watching as he seemed to droop a bit at the knees, melting under her touch.

Then, the features of that delicate face hardened and her hand drew back. The sound of the slap caused those in the street who weren't already ogling the couple take notice.

"You never wrote to me, you big lout!" she said hotly.

Next to Loti, someone snickered. Someone else punched that someone in the arm, uttering words of reproach.

Shocked, Theo put a hand to his face, checked his fingers for signs of blood.

"Didn't—" He stuttered, the emerald green of his eyes glazed with confusion. "I wrote to you. A hundred times at least! You never got _any_ of my letters?"

Reliable gossip had it that there was no love lost between Theofrid and Ariel's father, a wealthy and important nobleman of Gondor. Theo, an eminently honorable man by Rohirric standards, had proposed marriage—a proposal he knew Ariel would accept had she any choice in the matter—but Theofrid, son of Ealdwine, was a peasant, possessed of no property, no money and little social standing. Hardly an ideal mate for a lord's only daughter who, in her father's opinion, should have gone to her marriage pure as the sheets on her wedding bed. No matter the inducement, the girl's father had refused, denouncing Theofird as a rapist and proclaiming Eomer—who was only acting as emissary on Theo's behalf—as an accomplice in the act. This accusation hadn't gone over well, causing further negotiations to devolve into shouting matches and once, almost coming to blows. In the meanwhile, though, Ariel had conveniently been spirited away to some distant relative's house because of the scandal. Devastated, Theo had neither seen nor heard anything of her since, though he had searched, coming time and time again to Minas Tirith, pounding on doors, requesting audiences with her father, pleading with officials. Without exception, on each occasion he was turned away, put off, not knowing whether mother and baby were alive or dead. Had heard nothing at all until one day some months later a brief note from the girl's kindly maid arrived, crumpled and spotted the stains of travel, informing him of the birth and the name of his son.

And then the spell was broken. Wolf coughed discretely, interrupting. Theofrid's head snapped around, the veil of the moment's emotion suddenly torn from his eyes. No longer infused with the flush of excitement, his face was paling rapidly. He stared up at them, as if unsure what to say or do next. Not without sympathy for his situation, Wolf aided Theo, making a very slight jerking motion of the head, indicating he should remount.

Having had eyes only for Theofrid, his young woman was also just noticing their audience. The blood that had drained out of Theo's face now flooded her own.

"My Lady," Eomer acknowledged with a formal bob of the head. Ariel, graceful despite her flusterment, dropped a quick curtsey in return.

A soldier to the core, Theo put aside his own wants, straightened up to his full height, squared his shoulders and told her stiffly, "I have to go. I'll find you. Later. I promise." Hesitancy seemed to be about him, though, even as he said it.

Eoin must have sensed what the trouble was and spoke up. "Go on, man. We're in not so much of a rush so as you can't say hello to your son."

Ariel thrust the squirming baby forward on her hip then, inviting. "Here honey," she coaxed, bending her head to the baby's ear as he gurgled and smacked his lips in a _nom, nom, nom_ fashion, "Go to your Da."

The words had a marked effect on Theo. The big man swallowed, wary, looking as if he were about to pick up one of Hifur the half elf/dwarf's bombs. Cautiously and with extreme gentleness for a man of his size, he gathered the wriggling bundle into his arms, hefting him like a sack of flour.

Baby Theoden was fat and drooling and pudding faced, so far bearing little resemblance to his father. Contentedly gumming the blunted remains of an orange segment, he was liberally coated with a sticky sheen of pulp and juice from nose to chin. One noodle-y arm reached out, and, with great interest in this strange looking new man, he promptly inserted two gooey fingers up his father's nose.

Gingerly, he laid the boy back in his mother's arms before kissing both affectionately on the forehead. It was obvious even to a blind man that he wished to stay with them; Loti could see it in the way he gazed at her, physically feel the pull of his desire. But then he returned, swinging purposefully into the saddle and, nickering to his horse, wheeled the beast around, leaving his young family in the street, staring after him.

Several of the others clicked their tongues also, urging their mounts uphill with the same cold blooded, featureless expressions Theofrid had just showed.

"Bu—" Loti started to say, but then gave it up. Reluctantly, Ariel was already headed back in the direction she'd come from, hands full of a whimpering, kicking baby upset over the loss of his new toy and Loti was tired. Too tired to make any big fuss over it. She exhaled quietly through her nose, slump shouldered and feeling equally as droopy, like a flower after a rain storm.

The final leg of the journey was short and the eight of them were obliged to pause briefly, spending several minutes in a tunnel under that great eastern facing spur of rock which divided the city in half—and bore more than a passing resemblance to a wedge of cheese—making small talk and discussing the precociousness of Baby Theoden before being announced. The proud father sat hunched over the neck of his horse, the tunnel ceiling having a rather low clearance, the unexpected meeting with Ariel coloring his face even in the gloomy space.

The tunnel itself was dim and damp and smelled faintly of must and horse piss—very unpleasant.

Loti lifted her hands to her hair, combing her fingers through any tangles and double checking to make certain the horn comb was still securely fitted. Rain draggled and unwashed, still, she didn't want to look a beggar in front of Eomer's sister, although it was doubtful anyone would notice her anyway amid all the hubbub.

A sloping ramp angled down from above, leading to whatever was on the seventh and highest level of the city. She could see the armored silver shoes of a knight or some such perched on the lip of the ramp wall. A streak of light sliced through the ramp opening, casting Eomer, similarly hunched over Firefoot, in a yellow ray of sunbeams. Everything he thought showed in the lines and bones of that handsome face. Before, while watching his man reunite with his erstwhile lover and son, he'd looked happy and amused. Now he wore the stretched, slightly pained expression of a man waiting his turn at the gallows. He was nervous and nervousness had a tendency to curdle his stomach. If she'd been closer, she could have at least offered him a friendly smile or reassuring pat on the hand.

For months now Loti, herself, had wondered about this mysterious sister of his who both vexed and charmed her older brother. Would she be like him—grim, serious, thin-lipped, and stiff? Or would she be his opposite, full of fun and easy to be with? She'd heard the stories about Eowyn, certainly. Would she have changed much since the end of the war? Was Eomer worried about how much she had changed since he'd last seen her, nearly a year ago?

She wouldn't have to wait much longer for the answers to her questions. An imperious deep voice proclaimed, "Your Grace—His Majesty, Eomer, King of the Riddermark!"

As a rule, horses weren't permitted on the citadel level, but no man had the gall to unseat the Horse Lord himself, and they all followed him up the slope into the possibilities of a new day.

Really, she hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the embassage that awaited. Eothain had described the citadel as "a bunch of big white stone buildings and a white stone tower three hundred feet tall. There's a bit of green lawn and a fountain and this ugly dead tree. They should just cut it down! But you know them Gondorians. Everything's got to have special meaning to them. I'm surprised they don't dip the king's shit in gold and call it an 'heirloom of his House.'"

Not given to over exaggeration, Eothain had been right. That tree was an eyesore…

As far as the assembled people went, they were much more of an impressive sight. There were two dozen or so steel backed, unblinking guards adorned in some outrageous avian headgear, a gaggle of politicos off to one side who stopped quacking when Eomer appeared, and several other men with indistinguishable occupations stooping in low bows, cloaks and robe flapping in the breeze around their knees. In front of all this, though, stood a man and a woman, he full of nobility and importance, she distractedly pleating the fabric of her skirt between her fingers.

Having dismounted, Eomer tried rearranging his expression into one of gravity, regalness and sufficient indifference befitting his position as a king and commander. Regality was never a problem for Eomer. Gravity and indifference, though, not so much, and after a couple twitches of the mouth, he broke into a smile as bright as the dawn.

"Hello, Wynnie," he murmured in a huskily tender voice which Loti had never heard him use before. Unable to control herself any longer, his sister let out an unladylike squeal of delight and ran to him, hurling herself into his arms. A little shocked by her enthusiasm, he staggered back a pace, holding on as she clung doggedly to his neck. Since the day she had met Eomer, Loti, half hidden behind the others, didn't think she'd ever seen him look so happy.

The thing about first impressions is that they're generally correct. If Loti could've picked one word to describe the woman in front of her, that word really would have been Shield Maiden. Gleenings from the stories told about Eowyn made Loti half expected the woman to be manly or unattractive, dressed in mail and plate with a broadsword strapped to her hip.

_Actually…_As she dwelt on her expectations, Loti realized she hadn't had expectations to begin with, at least as far as her appearance went, anyway; the Riders of Rohan spoke only of her bravery, never of her looks.

Almost a feminine replica of her brother, Eowyn was one of the tallest women Loti had ever seen, taller even than some of the men present; the top of her head came to just under her brother's chin. She was six feet tall if she was an inch and slender—a bit on the hippy side, perhaps?—but with the same high cheekbones and strong set to her jaw that was the eternal legacy of the House of Eorl.

The only real physical difference between brother and sister was the color of their eyes. While Eomer's were a light crystal blue, the color of spring water and summer skies, Eowyn's were a soft silverish gray tinged with white, like dove's wings.

Born to be a gentile noblewoman, men and politics and the countryside of Rohan had been Eowyn's greatest influences. Therefore, she carried herself with the erect grace of a woman who has known herself to be both a beauty and a warrior, although, not necessarily in that order. As Eomer was his father's son, Eowyn was her mother's daughter; steady and stalwart as an old oak, balanced with a feminine toughness that only supremely confident men could appreciate. Or tolerate.

"We were worried you weren't going to make it."

While Eowyn mauled her brother, the dark Gondorian man—obviously from his familiarity this had to be Faramir, Eowyn's betrothed—had come up next to them, unnoticed. Disentangling himself from his sister's embraces, Eomer abandoned her all together. He hooked an elbow around the man's neck, laughing, and pulled him close. Instantly, he and Faramir were locked in one of those rib cracking brotherly hugs complete with stinging back slaps, violent shakes and forceful shoves. They laughed, making rude comments to each other under their breath and, in a gesture that showed just how close the two men were, Faramir cupped his hands around Eomer's face.

"It's good to see you again, Eomer," he laughed, using the common tongue. The lines bracketing his eyes deepened as he smiled.

Loti decided then and there that if ever there was such a thing as a fairy tale knight, Faramir, the Steward of Gondor was it. A Gondorian all the way back to the days of the founding, she found him to be handsome and quite dashing with an easy reserve and a genuine smile which made him immediately likeable. Broad shouldered and tall—not quite as tall as Eomer, though—his gold trimmed, brown velvet tunic complimented his tanned skin and dark hair, while down playing a pair of shrewd gray eyes, the color of weathered steel.

He was one of those rare men whose wealth and power and station would never change him.

"Yes. Did you really have to wait until the last possible moment to show up?" asked Eowyn inserting herself back into the conversation. Eomer shrugged carelessly, turning to give his sister a proper hug and a kiss on the cheek. With a pinched nose, she made a sound of vile disgust, as one does when encountering something truly smelly, and pushed him away. She took a step back, eyeing his mud caked boots, the travel dust on his armor, his unwashed cheeks and the thick wooly scruff sprouting on his face. She pulled a bit of dried leaf out of his hair. "You look awful."

"I missed you, too, Wynnie," he said, matching her dry tone. "We rode all night in the rain and the mud and the cold with no food to get here in time. And when I do get here, you jump all over me about not being here soon enough. Can't I get any sisterly sympathy from you at all?" he teased.

A few strands of her thick yellow gold hair had come loose from the braided coil at the base of her neck and the ends lifted freely in the breeze. She smoothed them behind one ear.

"Mmhmm," she intoned and Loti quickly converted a giggle into a cough. "I hope that's only mud. Don't even think about wearing those boots in my house. And you better not be covered in lice, either, or the servants will have to souse you in vinegar outside before you come in."

"No, I'm not, so I won't need pickling. And it's my house. So I'll wear my boots where ever I want."

The corner of her mouth tucked back and she crossed her arms, looking as impenetrable as a brick wall. "Mmhmm. Well. We'll see about that."

Then that gray gaze slid sideways, landing on someone else. "Oh! Well! Hello there, Eothain."

A natural born flirt, Eothain leaned forward rakishly, resting a forearm on the saddle pommel, bright blue eyes twinkling. Or were they leering? "Hello, Wynnie! You're looking fine, as always!"

Her cheeks flushed with more than just wind and sun. "Faramir," she said excitedly, touching his arm, "this is Eothain. Remember me telling you about him?"

"You told him about Eothain? Why would you do a thing like that?" her brother demanded.

"Because he's my friend, too!" she snapped back. "Aren't you, Eothain?"

Eothain and Eomer locked gazes for a split second, like dogs do just before they attack. One of Eomer's eyes slanted in an icy blue warning. The best adjective to describe that look was dirty.

Of course, it was ignored. "My sword has always been at your service, my lady," Eothain professed gallantly, then winked at her.

"See?" Eowyn taunted her elder brother, holding out a hand in demonstration and elbowing him sharply in the ribs, "A true knight of the Mark."

"A knight, huh?" Eomer growled, "Is it a true knight that sneaks off and uses that sword behind his lord's back, then?"

Eoin and Wolf exchanged a worried eyeball and there was a slight shifting of the men around Loti, the surreptitious settling of hands on weapons, as though at any moment a fight might break out.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"I'd lay my sword at your feet if you'd like, Rooster," quipped Eothain, "but I didn't take you for the kind that liked to handle another man's sword."

Eomer said nothing in response but his face went red as a tomato under all that facial hair.

Loti saw Faramir stir. The consummate diplomat, he evidently sought to enter this dangerous Rohirric triangle of hostility if only as an instrument of peace. Hopefully, he would emerge with all his body parts intact…

One arm crossed under the other, he stroked his chin in a pensive manner, his beard well groomed in comparison to the Rohirrim's shaggy faces. "Ah, yes, I remember now…Eothain." Graciously smiling, he pointed a finger at the big blonde Rider. "The, ah, one with the big sword. I've heard a lot about you." Cordial, still, Faramir made no move to extend a welcoming hand.

Loti always thought the dislike Eothain held for the Steward was something of a joke or merely the protective instinct of a man who regarded his best friend's sister as his own. Clearly, it was not. He held a genuine, lip curling distain for the Gondorian and his eyes snapped like the white pennants atop the Citadel walls, enmity mixing with mockery.

Straightening up and squaring broad shoulders, he lovingly stroked the leather wrapped hilt of his long sword. "Have ya, then? Well, let's hope Your Grace can achieve the same standards that her ladyship is accustomed to."

The size and shape of Faramir's eyes changed imperceptibly, but the smiling lips and carefree manner did not. "Oh, not to worry, sir. Considering the possible alternatives, I think she won't find herself lacking."

"Oh, stop it already," Eowyn scolded in a way that meant she was used having her orders obeyed. "Men are supposed to be superior, huh? Ha! The next thing I know the three of you will be comparing swords to see whose it the longest."

Suddenly, her head popped out from behind the unneeded protection of her brother's back like a coo coo out of a clock.

"Eomer, who is this? Another one of your rescued strays?"

A split second's worth of panic flashed in Eomer's eyes. "She's nobody," he said brusquely, but it was too late to stop her. The phalanx of Rohirrim parted like an unfashionable hairstyle and Eowyn of Rohan came to stand by Loti's knee.

Thyrs recognized his former mistress, energetically wiggling his rubbery lips in an apparent desire to eat the velvet of her gown. She batted the oblong head away like the practiced horsewoman she was.

"Tell me you name, my dear." She smiled up at Loti with all the charm her brother normally lacked.

Loti felt her mouth go dry at being so addressed while a bit of nervous fear put knots in her stomach. What did one say to a princess? The sister of a king? Not knowing what else to do, she looked to Eomer, glowering under furrowed brows—no sign of help there…

Caught between the lowering gaze of her employer and iron intransigence of his sister, Loti decided honesty was the best policy. Taking a deep breath, she dropped her eyes to Eowyn and said in the surest voice she could manage, "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"Nonesense!" she cried, indignantly, "Of course you can. What does my idiot brother think? That I'll be a bad influence on you?"

"Wynnie!" Eomer barked.

"What?" Eowyn asked with the same exact fierceness in her voice.

"She's the one who tried to kill me!"

The gray eyes turned stony as her head half turned towards him. "Doing women everywhere a favor, no doubt!" she hurled back. "Pity she didn't get it right."

Loti slumped in the saddle trying to hide herself. Every eye present was on her, some with interest, some with suspicion, most with a wary apprehension as if afraid she might suddenly get the urge to slit their throats without cause. Damn! And here she thought she'd go unnoticed!

It wasn't as if Eomer was purposely being mean, but he was obviously irritated, and understandably losing both his temper and his patience. He ground his teeth together, visibly biting off any retorts.

The soothing contralto voice of Eowyn returned to a more calm level. "So this is your lovely secretary. Loti, am I right? My you're such a pretty thing! Much prettier than Eomer described. You'll have half a dozen suitors before the night's over," she added in a whisper behind her hand. "Eomer? Where is she staying?"

"In the barracks. With the others."

Eowyn whirled to face her brother. "In the barracks? You can't let a woman stay in the barracks!"

"Why not?" Eomer retorted. "You did."

"Yes, well…" At a loss for words, she tired sounding superior. "I'm different. She'll just have to stay with us then."

Loti swallowed hard. Her? Live with the Siblings of Stubbornness! "Oh, no, I don't think that's—" she tried to put in but, to no one's surprise, her protest was quickly shunned.

"Nonesense! Of course you will! Won't she, Eomer?"

Eomer had moved on from teeth grinding and was now doing some heavy duty lip pursing. Either he wasn't too pleased about this turn in events or he didn't like having his orders over turned, but wisely forbore to continue arguing. "Fine. At least she'll be close when I need her," he grumbled.

"You're not actually going to make her work while she's here, are you? You can't expect a guest in my house to work like a common servant!"

Besides their physical similarities, the siblings had matching personalities. Both were bossy, willful, uncompromising, and had the annoying tendency to talk about you as if you weren't standing right there. Well, what did Loti expect from the children of an important Rohirric lord and what was essentially a Rohirric princess?

"It's my house," he snarled, "and she is a servant. _My_ servant. What else is she supposed to do?"

Eowyn responded immediately and commandingly. "Be rewarded for serving you well! I know what you're like. The poor girl probably hasn't had any peace. Been working her day and night for months now, I'll wager."

"She's got you there, Cock," Eothain interrupted.

Eomer pointed a threatening finger. "You," he menaced, "Stay out of this."

Eowyn continued. "You can use my secretary if you need one. He's perfectly capable of dealing with the likes of you. It's all settled, then?" This was said less as a question and more of an assumption of fact.

Loti actually thought she heard Eomer moan. In the end, though, rather than answer, he flipped a disgusted hand at her.

"Is that a yes?" she asked.

"Yes, that's a yes," he replied grudgingly.

Bouncing on her toes, Eowyn clapped her hands together and rushed her clench-faced brother, pulling his head down so she could kiss his cheek. Eomer huffed through his nose in that way of his, the hard lines and muscles that kept his features so serious relaxing into a boyish half smile, making him look ten years younger.

"Thank you, E!"

"Yah, yah, I know, I'm your favorite brother."

Grabbing her fiancé's hand, she dragged him over, forcing him to submit to her enthusiasm also. Obediently, Faramir, partially obscured from Loti's view when the horses parted, emerged from his hiding place, smiling indulgently at Eowyn who hauled him along like a dingy in the wake of a barge.

The smile faltered slightly, however, when his eye met Loti's. He lagged back a pace, his hand slipping from Eowyn's, pupils grown huge and black in his sherry colored eyes, cheeks and lips bloodless as a corpse's. Literally, the man looked as if he had simultaneously been smacked in the back of the head with a club and seen the resurrection of Sauron. It was such an odd, unexpected reaction, and it happened so quickly that if Loti hadn't been looking right at him she might have missed it, or mistaken his hesitancy all together as just a quirk of his personality. She hadn't though, and neither had Eowyn.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, standing near Thrys's withers, smooth blonde brows drawn down in puzzlement. "Faramir?"

"Ahm, nothing," he said, the lines of his forehead knitted in a mildly confused sort of way. "It's just—" He broke off, and gave a quick laugh, his full lipped mouth curving into a warm, sweet smile. "Never mind…" His eyes softened around the edges then, and he said quite softly, "It's very, _very_ nice to meet you, Loti."

It was in that moment she knew something else about Faramir. He may not be an inherently sly man, but she had the very real impression that he could when he needed to be.

"It's very nice to meet you, your…er—Grace."

"Please, call me Faramir." Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles, disregarding their filthy state. The Steward had hands like Eomer, well calloused and long fingered, muscled, strong, yet oddly gentle for a big man. "Shall I help you to dismount?"

Loti was fairly certain she should say no, but nodded with alacrity. One didn't give a damn about etiquette and propriety when one's ass hurt!

Once on the ground, Loti's muscles stretched back into their regular shapes, her joints and vertebrae popped and blood migrated eagerly back into her tender rear.

When she steady on her feet, Eowyn laced her arm through Loti's and the three of them wandered back to the spot where Eomer was still standing. The other woman's touch was friendly, almost sisterly.

Up close, Eowyn's gown, brown velvet slashed in orange down the bodice, complimented the color of her skin and picked out the brassier tones in her hair. This high up the mountainside, the breeze was quite strong and it carried the scent of her toilet water, rich and feminine, like vanilla and cream and amber.

"I like your clothes," she was saying in a low voice. "Eomer always gets upset when I wear britches. He thinks it's vulgar. I swear his mind is dirtier than a privy pit. I've never seen him try to ride in a full skirt and three petticoats, though!" Loti found that image amusing.

Eomer acknowledged her continuing presence with a nod.

"So," he said, seeming to loosen up significantly now that he'd satisfied his sister's demands, "I see Daddy Long Legs is home." He gestured to the black flag perched atop the Tower of Ecthilion three hundred feet above, the silver tree and stars emblazoned on it twitching in the wind. "I always have to wait on his sorry ass, don't I? Where the hell is he?"

Faramir scoffed—an ungentlemanly noise, to be sure—briefly letting go of the stately facade. "What else would you expect from him? He can't show up on time for anything. All those years he spent with living with the Elves. They do things in their own time, you know."

"Pfft." This time it was Eowyn who made the sound. "It's all that pipe weed he smokes. I was talking to Arwen—"

As if the speaking had been a summons, the doors of one of the enormous white stone buildings crashed open and a tall, dark, disheveled looking man stumbled down the steps and shot off towards them, running on freakishly long legs, as thin as spindles. A gust of wind seized his formal draperies, making them flap and beat around him like wings. Loti thought he looked like a stork making an unsuccessful attempt to get off the ground.

Chuckling, Eomer held his hands out from his sides. "Hey, old man!" he yelled. "You're late!"

Jogging the last few steps, the newest arrival panted open mouthed in front of them. "Hairy—horse—fucker," he gasped, laying a teasing eye on Eomer. "What? Do you have a head made of iron plate? I—told you—before," he drew in one deep, lung filling breath before exhaling gustily, "You can't sail north up a south flowing river with a head wind. You have to row. And it takes damn near forever."

"You couldn't have hurried up any? I thought for sure we were all gonna die."

"Since you're not dead, I'd say I showed up right on time!" A playful jab of the fist took Eomer in his well armored belly. "Hello, Eowyn," he smiled, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "Sorry, I'm late. And, ah… who, er… um…" Awkward, his head turned back to Eomer, one dark brow elevated.

"Loti," Eomer said, hooking a thumb in her direction.

The other's eyebrow rose higher, gaze furtively darting from Eomer to Loti and back.

My gods! Did he think that she was-?

"My secretary."

"Oh!" He brightened. "Loti! Call me Aragorn…Ahm…" Shuffling forward, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek too. "Oh, you've got the, um…" He brushed one finger above his lip and Loti felt blood rush into her face. "My wife's an elf. She'll be excited to meet you."

Much of a height with Eomer—was Eomer perhaps just a smidge taller?—the ash gray eyed King of Gondor was possessed of a long boned grace that challenged his evident gawkiness. Looking somewhat greasy and unkempt, his lanky brown hair fell loose to his shoulders and the frame of his face was heavily streaked with gray, like a night dark window rimed in frost. Even what he was pleased to call a beard bore white hairs among the dark. Also like Eomer, he had the broad boned face of a northerner, a strong chin and, interestingly enough, all of his teeth, but most of his other features, brows, high forehead, coloring and general body structure were more like Faramir's, traits passed down, undiluted, from their Nuemenorian ancestors. It was hard to tell Aragorn's age, though. He had the appearance of a man in his middle years, but the webbing around his eyes and the grooves punctuating his mouth told the story of someone whose lifestyle and experiences had made him old before his time. Loti often saw this in Eomer, as well.

All in all, despite his odd proportions, Aragorn seemed like a nice man, and that was really what mattered.

"Yes, well, I'm sure Arwen will be delighted to meet Loti, but right now, I think food and some rest are in order, hmm?" Eowyn turned a sympathetic eye to Loti as she discreetly tried to stifle a yawn. Making that her final decision, the former Shield Maiden of Rohan started issuing orders as if she were about to take on the title of Captain General instead of Princess.

"Wolf, take your men to the barracks and see that the captain there feeds you and gets you all a proper bed. Go on, now, there's nothing more for you to do here." She made shooing motions with her long, elegant hands. "Caladar, come get these horses and take them down to the house. That's a good lad. Faramir, be a dear and take hold of Loti. Don't let her fall. The poor thing is practically dead on her feet." Eowyn disentangled herself and wrapped Loti's arm securely around her prospective husband's. "Now— Aragorn! Where are you going?"

Aragorn was making a hasty get away, moving across the lawn at a high rate of speed. He lifted one long arm, waving in a salute.

"He's late," Eomer said, pointing with a thumb, "For a, ah…meeting."

Eowyn sighed, not buying this excuse at all. "Mmhmm. Well, off we go. Come along, E."

Swept up in the subsequent activity of greeting diplomats and dignitaries, and carried along by Eowyn's whirlwind personality, Loti barely remembered returning to the sixth level or the walk that led to what would be her home while she visited in Minas Tirith. Dazed and overwhelmed, she felt as if she had been dropped into some dream world, one where her vision went blurry round the edges and people spoke in odd, distorted voices.

At last, they came to a stop in front of a black wrought iron gate ornamented with a very life like rendition of a rearing gilt stallion. Like a pair of matching statues, two gigantic young Riders stood sentry on either side of the gate, their blonde hair peeking out from underneath artistically wrought conical helms. Dressed in the traditional Rohirric fashion, their boiled leather armor was unnaturally clean and well oiled—especially in comparison to Eomer—and their weapons and chain mail shirts were so shiny, they caught sparks when the light was just right. Great green cloaks hung down their backs doing little to alleviate the impression that they were of barbaric decent and completely out of place here. They were twins, Loti saw as they swung the doors open, and like Bram and Gram, completely identical.

The doors swung shut with a clang an instant later and Loti found herself inside a circular paved courtyard, complete with a small, but well maintained formal garden. The spicy autumn scents of fall flowers filled her nose while the courtyard's centerpiece, a raised marble fountain, burbled happily to itself, the sound both soothing and welcoming.

"This was my brother's house," Faramir explained in a murmur as they were preceded down a path between the main house and another building by Eomer and Eowyn. "Eomer thought it might be a good idea to have a place to stay when he does business here. And, it's one of the few places with its own stable." He indicated the other building. It matched the house; white stone with a slate roof.

The downside to building a city out of a mountain, he explained further, was that space was at a premium. So in order to best take advantage of the limited space and the spectacular views, most homes were constructed in the "side on" fashion, meaning the main entrances were located on the sides of the houses rather than facing the street, leaving the front façade free for balconies, terraces and patio gardens.

At the door, Eowyn turned around, arms crossed, blocking the way like a glacier in a mountain pass. Eomer nearly bumped into her, looking cross, but he still sense enough not to force her out of the way. He glared and she glared back, gaze dropping to his feet and returning to his face. At this point, it became a standoff as each dared the other to try something on. Finally, after a few more moments, Eomer mumbled a curse under his breath and bent, pulling off one boot and then the other, clods of dried mud and other things scattering across the clean stoop. One long, bare toe poked out from the tip of his thick wool sock. He wiggled it, embarrassed. Eowyn's mouth tucked back, feigning disapproval, but this was only a mask; amusement and something akin to dismay lurked in the corners there. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and laid it flat against his cheek, tenderness for him softening those cold gray eyes.

Then that same hand delved into the pocket of her gown, producing an item that flared like emerald fire in the light of the sun. Loti knew what it was; a large band of gold mounted with a green gemstone, the stylized image a horse head carved into it, and the words _Blessed are the merciful_ inscribed on the inside of the band. His signet ring.

Taking his left hand, Eowyn slid the ring carefully over the swollen joint of his slightly crooked fourth finger.

"Welcome home. Come along inside, then," she said and stepped aside.


	21. Chapter 21 Secrets, Secrets Are No Fun

A/N: Well. Having written that one word, I don't know what else to say other than 2012 was a tough year for me personally. I've had nearly a year's worth of writer's block, not due to lack of ideas, but, rather, to pain, stress, anxiety and some hormonal issues due to a-er, female complaint. lol I could go on about it, but I'd rather just forget all about it, it was so terrible. Hopefully, I haven't lost all of my readership.

Incidently, would there be any interest in me writing a modern day E/L? A straightforward romance? I have a really great idea for one.

This might not be the most action packed chapter I've ever written, but I still I hope you are entertained. You'll meet one character who I've fallen in love with and will probably write a separate story about sometime. I've read alot of Jennifer Ashley lately, mainly her Regency Pirates and MacKenzies series. Its seems almost every chapter ends in a cliff hanger, so I thought I'd try it this time too! Please leave a review in the box at the end of the chapter. It's my only reward. Also, be sure to become a story follower so you can get the alerts when I post new chapters.

Thanks again for hanging in there with me.

* * *

Several hours later that same day, Loti sat curled up amongst the cushions of her bedroom's window seat, sunning herself like a cat, luxuriating, her book propped neatly in her lap, golden rays of afternoon sunlight slanting through the diamond shaped panes of glass. A strong southerly breeze gusted through the open casements, stirring the frayed hem of her skirt and riffling the pages of the book. The wind also brought with it a whiff of sun warmed evergreens and the faint homey scents of cinnamon and baking apples emanating from the basement kitchen. The aroma was thrilling, intoxicating, and as she sniffed, pools of saliva filled her mouth automatically, a response that had nothing to do with hunger.

Upon arriving at the house that morning, after Eomer had met his small band of servants for the first time in the front foyer—there were twelve in total; the elderly but dignified butler, two matched footman, two parlour maids, an ox-like, but beaming, Rohirric woman who was the cook, the cook's assistant, a laundress, one stable master smelling of livestock, two grubby grooms and a stableboy (presumably the cook's son) in an unnatural state of cleanliness—both Loti and Eomer were led to the front terrace where a table had been laid and they were served an informal, yet remarkably filling mid-morning meal. It had been beyond delicious, not the drab monotonous fare they ate in camp, and they'd tucked into it with all the gusto of a couple of rescued castaways. There had been two kinds of eggs, boiled and fried, a plate piled with fried potatoes, sausage, strips of thickly cut, greasy bacon, tomatoes, cheeses, fruits, toast, fresh butter, coffee, sweet buns with icing and a small round meat the Gondorians also called bacon but that bore a distinct resemblance lean ham. Very odd, indeed. Loti had spared a brief thought for her friends, Eothian, Wolf and the others, hoping they were being just as generously fed in the barracks and infinitely grateful she was here and not there.

Having eaten to the point of rupture, both she and Eomer had been lead to their assigned rooms—Eomer having the master suite, of course—summarily tucked into their respective beds and told in no uncertain terms that they were to nap. And so Loti had if the pool of drool she'd found herself lying in a few hours later was any indication.

Hmm… Something was wrong. She wriggled a bit on the pillows, yanked from daydreams. Damn! Her backside had gone numb from sitting too long, the inconsiderate thing. She wiggled some more—it was like sitting on a cactus wrapped in barbed wire—and in the process, ended up scooting closer to the open window. Sensitivity gradually returned, so, with nothing more pressing to do other than to return to her wool gathering, she made the contented noise of the thoroughly washed, full bellied and well rested, and leaned to the side, resting her forehead against the cool glass, feelings of utter relaxation stealing over her like a fire-warmed blanket.

Down below, under a clear autumn sky the color of polished turquoise lay the back garden. Classically landscaped, it was one of those places the nobility kept for reasons of serenity and escape, a retreat where one could disappear, forgetting about the demands of others and the hustle and bustle of life outside these walls.

The gardener was out, toiling away. A squat, middle aged fellow wielding a frighteningly big knife, he crouched and waddled through the plots of perennials, rolling around down there like an unbalanced ball bearing, trimming back the plants in preparation for winter with vicious sounding _thwacks_. Poking her head farther out the window, directly beneath her window she could see a white stone patio, decorated with uncomfortable white stone benches and stone urns of various sizes and shape. An early frost had nipped the summer flowers a few weeks past, so Eowyn, herself, had replaced them with heartier, fall blooming varieties, in this case, huge, rounded masses of jewel tones mums. From above, Loti thought, they resembled multi colored toadstools. Across the lawn, in a small water feature, a handful of visiting birds splashed, chittering and ruffling their wings, tiny feathered brains lulled into complacency—or denial—by the unusual warmth of the day. This kept her attention for a while until the discordant clanging of bells announced the arrival of a pair of wooly sheep, plum and dingy, ironically the same exact color as dirty stockings. They meandered for a few minutes as sheep do, grazing contentedly and occasionally _bah-aaah_-ing back and forth to themselves until they discovered the gardener's discarded trimmings as well as his disregarded hat, which they began nibbling in earnest. For a little while, it really was an idealistically pastoral picture, like those that hung in rough hewn wooden frames on the bedroom walls, paintings Eowyn had done as a girl, scenes of life on the moors of Rohan. Loti's imagination quickly populated the lawn with small thatched-roof cottages, pens of goats and shaggy cattle, shrieking children and squealing piglets, muddy dooryards, women churning butter or plucking chickens, men mending fences and tack, chopping wood. And then there were the horses, dozens and dozens of horses.

"Don't you ever get tired of reading that?"

Loti started, banging her head on the window frame. The sound was loud enough make the gardener look up. Or it could have been the string of bad language that followed. Either way, blushing, he repossessed his partially eaten hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirt streaked sleeve, crammed on the hat and went back to work.

"Do come in," she said ungraciously, shifting on the cushions to glare, snake-eyed, at the intruder whose shape kept fading in and out of fuzziness. What few coherent thoughts remained were bouncing off the interior walls of her skull like peas in a rattle. Dear Valar! Her brains were spilling out between her fingers!

Eventually, as the stabs of pain and colorful red and brown stars subsided, her vision cleared just enough to find the possessor of that voice standing in the middle of her bed chamber as if he owned the place—which, of course, he did.

"Gah, Eomer! Don't you ever knock?"

Oblivious to her sarcasm, Eomer was scowling ferociously, thick fingers fumbling unsuccessfully to do up the fastenings of his high collared coat. Heaving an exhalation of annoyance, he finally threw up his hands in defeat. Metaphorically speaking, that is. In actuality, he flung his hands down to his sides, swearing. Loudly. "I can't get at these little bastards," he snarled, "Do you think you could…?" He trailed off, waggling a finger at his throat.

He was dressed in a long skirted coat that was more of a work of art than a garment. Frogged in sliver filigreed clasps down the front and made of black samite—heavy silk interwoven with faint pattern of silver scroll work—it was perfectly tailored to fit and flatter his athletic figure. Underneath, just the hint of a lightweight, black linen tunic showed, embroidered at the cuffs. Tight fitting black wool britches were tucked fastidiously into a pair of tall black leather boots. Neither dirk nor sword hung from his side and he wore no other adornments, save his gold and emerald signet ring, but in truth, he needed nothing more. Anything else would have purely been distraction.

Unwilling to out done by such tiny enemies, Eomer was already redoubling his assault before she could answer, stretching his neck up in hopes of gaining the advantage, muttering under his breath all the while.

Mushy brained and sore, she watched with mild dispassionate as he did battle with his wardrobe thinking the old adage "fashion hurts" was true in this case.

"Don't you have a valet to do that?" she demanded in a tone that was the exact opposite of helpful.

He gave her a slant eyed look of condescension that said she should know better. He'd rather go naked through the streets than have another man dress him. A woman, on the other hand… On the other hand, he was probably quite familiar with the nimbleness of female fingers, experience gained in being _un_dressed by them. That provocative image of Eomer being fumbled with, his clothes scattered across some unknown floor gave her confused feelings of discomfort, concentrated mostly around the heart.

Why on earth did she care what he did or why he did it?!

Or who he'd done it with?

Or how many times…

Or where…

All that mattered was it hadn't been her.

"Oh, alright, then. Here." Loti sighed and set the book aside. Ignoring both a slight wobbliness and a lingering tendency to think her brains oozing out her ears, she swung her legs over the edge of the window seat.

When she approached, though, he shrank from her upraised hands. "I can do it."

"No, you can't."

"Yes. I can." Several red scratches marred the skin at the base of his throat she saw.

"Then why did you ask for help?" she snapped, wanting only to go back to her woolgathering at the window. Great Eru Almighty, he was stubborn!

She made a rude noise in the back of her throat, disgusted with him, and swatted at his fingers. Out done by, possibly, the only person more obstinate than himself, Eomer gave it up.

Bouncing up on tip toes to get a better reach, she felt around inside the collar, searching for the elusive little hooks while Eomer stood wooden as a toy soldier, his chin thrust up accommodatingly.

Somewhere, he'd found a bath. The skin of his throat was warm and slightly moist against the backs of her fingers, smelling faintly of the oatmeal soap he'd used in the tub, while the golden threads of his hair spiraled loose about his shoulders, ends still damp, making little wet rings on his coat. Thanks to someone, the butler, maybe, his beard was expertly trimmed and the face beneath, scrubbed of its mask of travel dirt, glowed healthy and tan, like the crust on a loaf of perfectly baked bread. She looped another hook and eye together by feel, covertly glancing at his cheekbones through long lashes, enjoying the incongruous softness of such coarse hairs against the backs of her fingers. Certain parts of her body were enjoying it a little too much. Her nipples were hard to the point of soreness, noticeably poking through the fabric of her kirtle and under gown.

Despite all this cleanliness, a good scrubbing in the tub couldn't disguise the purplish smudges that ringed Eomer's eyes and the reddish tinge to the whites of his eyes. Evidently, though ordered to do so, he still hadn't slept. No wonder he was so damned ornery.

She'd always known Eomer didn't sleep well, but on the road north, he'd been particularly restless, keeping watch by the fire 'til the wee hours and riding determinedly during the day, pushing both men and beasts to the edge of exhaustion as though being chased by something unseen and from which he must escape. Once, quietly rising in the middle of the night to make use of a convenient bush, she'd found him curled on his side around the dying embers of the fire, for once actually sleeping, blankets thrown off and shivering. She'd knelt down, intending to cover him up again—the night was chilly in spite of the fire—and, laying a hand on his arm, became instantly aware that something was wrong. His muscles weren't wracked with fine continuous vibrations of a body attempting to keep warm, but with twitches, convulsions, really, the long bands of bicep and triceps tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, endlessly, like a man in the grip of tetanus. His eyes, too, were in distress, rolling under their sealed lids.

A second later, he went berserk, rolling over like an alligator. Bellowing in the same sort of aggressive roar, he shot upright. Like a woman who'd just been spooked by an unexpectedly grotesque and hairy species of arachnid, she tried to call out for help but her shriek of alarm never made it past her vocal chords. He had seized her throat in the claw of his hand and she'd ended up sounding like frog that had been punched in the ribbit, letting out a strangled _erp!_-ing croak.

The handsome features of the King of the Mark had been twisted, murderous and inhuman, slashed with red light from the smoldering remains of the fire, like a demon smeared with blood and his breathing was labored and noisy, every exhalation a grunt. He was staring at her, eyes crazed and glazed as she gurgled and gasped for breath, both hands clawing at his to let go, but who or whatever he saw, it was not Loti. She should have been frightened, her heart had certainly pounded to the point of bursting, but she was too stunned to feel anything except shock.

Thankfully, Eomer's growling outburst had roused the rest of the sleeping camp. In a flurry of flung off blankets and withdrawn weapons, there came exclamations of, "What the-?!" and, "Mother Fucker!" and, "Who-?". This last from a whiskey-dazed Aric.

There was one voice in the cacophony, though, that superseded the others in terms of both authority and strength: Wolf, sounding every bit the Captain of the Household Guard that he was. "Eomer. Eomer!" he barked, "Wake up and look at what you're doing, man! Let the girl go before you strangle her to death!"

Eothain scrabbled over the leaf strewn ground on hands and knees but by the time he'd clamped a hand on his friend's shoulder, wrenching on his arm, the fog that had clouded Eomer's eyes and thoughts, lifted. He'd blinked rapidly, the grimace on his face softening, shifting into an expression Loti could only describe as haunted or terrorized. Realizing what he was about, Eomer had released his grip on her throat so fast it was as though he thought her contaminated. Loti had gasped, chest and shoulders heaving, a few glorious wisps cold night air to slipping past her constricted wind pipe, soothing her burning lungs. The panicked surge of adrenaline had left her feeling pukey, light headed and weak.

Then looking equal parts embarrassed and repentant, he'd shrugged off Eothain's hand, laid himself heavily back down on the ground with another grunt and pulled the blanket up over his head like a child who thought doing this would keep him hidden from the monsters under the bed.

Having seen him like this once before, come morning, she'd wanted answers. Soldiers spent a lot of time together and therefore had intimate knowledge of one another, sometimes whether they wanted that knowledge or not. Managing to corner Eothain while he was taking care of some personal morning business (one thing about the Rohirrim, they weren't a costive bunch. It was all that oatmeal, don't you know. They weren't exactly a very modest bunch, either, even with a woman in their presence) she'd demanded an explanation, knowing she'd never receive and adequate on from Eomer himself. But Eothain had just shrugged, a slight movement of the shoulders visible over the leafy screen of bushes.

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him. Bad dream, I expect," he answered unsatisfactorily, "We all get 'em. Now and again. You would, too. Now, unless you plan on giving me a hand back here I think, maybe, you should be running along. Wait! See any good leaves over there?"

She handed him a fallen branch and wandered off. Bad dream, her left foot, she'd ruminated later as she was gathering her things and packing them willy nilly into Thrys's saddlebags. A bad dream wouldn't leave a person looking as though he'd been chased to Mordor and back. Nightmares, however, did. Here was a question: What had Eothain meant by those 'We all get 'em…You would, too' comments? For all his bluntness, sometimes he could be very cryptic. Perhaps, he had just been…er, too preoccupied at the time.

The muscles in Eomer's throat flexed, brushing her fingers, and he cleared his throat in a preemptive sort of way, slowly returning Loti from damp woods of Ithilien, back to Minas Tirith and the task at hand. His pulse throbbed in the soft spot under his chin, regular as a drum beat. "I promised to take you to the library here. Remember?" He slanted a glance downward. "I'll still take you. If you want."

"The library…?" she repeated faintly, recalling the particulars of that conversation. "Oh, I'd love that!" Then she paused, wrinkling her nose. "It isn't all crusty old men and dusty scrolls, though, is it?"

He grunted; an indeterminate noise. "Faramir will know where the good books are."

"Oh, good. There!" she exclaimed, at last catching the one remaining hook, and, backing up a pace, observed her handiwork with satisfaction.

Grimacing, Eomer ran a finger inside his collar experimentally and tugged.

"Fine, then. I'll arrange it."

With a couple of sharp movements of the hands, he then smoothed the coat over his torso, pulled lightly to adjust both silver buttoned cuff and sleeve and, rolling his shoulders, squared himself up to a full six feet eight—his already impressive height augmented by two inch heeled cavalry boots, the matte black leather polished to a shine.

"Well," he asked, striking a very rigid pose, "What do you think?"

Eyes narrowed assessingly, she tapped a fingernail against her front teeth. "Hmm…"

Seeing him every day for months now in various states of grubbiness, smelling strongly of horses, manure, old sweat, leather, or the gods only knew whatever else he'd gotten in to, it was easy to forget how truly handsome he was. He wasn't just some inconsequential, back country lord. He was a king and for once he really looked like a king.

"Do you really want to know?" she asked smugly.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you ask your sister what she thought?"

He licked his lips, exhaling with restrained impatience and looked away briefly. "Because she'll say you can dress up a pig and call it a man, but it's still pig underneath."

Loti tried in vain to smother a giggle, finding both the double meaning and brutality of Eowyn's analysis amusing. "Well, she's got you there."

"I don't need you to tell me I'm a pig. All women think men are pigs," he grumbled, not meeting her eye.

"Oh, well, that's true," she said airily, "but it doesn't me we don't enjoy the odd pork chop or slab of bacon every once in a while."

At last, he showed an emotion that wasn't dourness. He snorted, lips crooked slightly with either humor or derision. "Is that what you want, huh? Bacon?"

"Well, personally, I prefer a nice rump roast, but bacon certainly adds flavor to a dish." More giggles plugged the back of her nose, tickling. "Are we still talking about pigs?"

"Look, woman, I didn't come in here so you could make fun of me. Just answer the question!"

"Oh, alright!" She matched him tit for tat in terms of annoyance. "But I don't know why you even bother to ask?" Coming closer, Loti picked an invisible speck of lint off his coat, smoothing the fabric in the same motion. The cloth of his coat had an exquisite feel, smooth and, yet, coarse, and the warmth of his body heated it through. "You're the finest pig in the market, you know. Top choice."

His posture became easy, muscles relaxing like the loosening of a bow string and he grunted again, the uncharitable sound bearing a vague resemblance to the words 'thank you'.

Now that his business was complete Eomer didn't race for the door, rather, he seemed eager to linger. His gaze flickered around the room as though he'd never been in here before. Of course, he probably hadn't. After purchasing it from Faramir's brother's estate, Eowyn had spent the better part of a year and much of Eomer's money remodeling it.

As for Loti, having spent more than half a year sleeping on an unforgiving camp bed in a tent that could keep out neither dirt nor bugs, Loti would have gratefully slept on a shelf in a hall closet provided it was clean, but Eowyn had seen that Loti was given the coziest of the guests rooms; a decent sized and elegantly decorated space, refined without crossing over into pretentiousness. On opposing walls, large pieces of white furniture inlaid with gold tracery stood on slender, sinuous feet, their front facades bowed, undulating like the curves of a woman. The white decorating scheme was carried on across the textured, stucco walls and even into the window seat accents and the pattern of the enormous hand knotted wool rug covering the floor. Loti wondered how Eowyn had done it. Somehow, she'd taken a color so often thought of as cold or sterile and infused it with her warmhearted nature and approachable, casual charm.

But it wasn't the furniture or the artwork on the walls or even Loti herself that garnered Eomer's attention. It was the bed. Well, what else?! He was a man.

A sleek, four postered beauty, painted white and swagged in some white gauzy stuff, it was positioned underneath a long, narrow window built high in the wall, thick beveled glass panes diffusing sunbeams and tiny rainbows across the snowy mounds of feather bed and duvet, rumpled from her earlier nap.

Stealing a glance at Loti, he flushed a very manly shade of pink, and looked away.

He started wandering around, touching and examining things, running his fingertips over the tops of the furniture, the corners of his eyebrows pinched together in preoccupation. Not one who coveted possessions, he was most likely not contemplating the finer points of interior design.

"Ever heard what Eothain says about pigs?" he asked suddenly.

If Eomer was making small talk, Eomer was avoiding something.

"No…" Loti drew the word out. Eothain's mind was like a cesspit and anything pulled out of it was bound to be filthy.

At the window seat, he put one knee on the cushion and peered out the open casement and uttered a sentence that secured Eothain's reputation. "He says pork is the other white meat."

A low, Rohirric-like sound, indicative of suffering come out of Loti's mouth. "Does he," she replied in the blandest of tones.

His head swung around, teeth, all the way to his molars, showing in a grin. He had the nicest smile and the most luminous, clear eyes when he did so, enough to make any girl's knees rubbery when he looked at her like that. Eomer was not always charming, but when he was, he was downright irresistible.

"It's said you can use every part of the pig. Including the squeal."

Loti bent an eye. "Are you sure about that?"

"I'm sure." Half sitting, half leaning on the edge of the window sill, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, he asked quite casually, "Like pork sausages, do ya?"

Loti crossed her arms over her chest in hopes of deflecting some of that charm. "Not particularly. Pork sausages are always so small, aren't they? I'd rather have a—oh, what do you call it?" Her tongue worked inside her mouth, searching for the right word in Rohirric. "Bratwurst. Bigger. Much more satisfying."

There was an answering grunt, noncommittal in nature. He leaned forward, arms stiff, fingers gripped around the sill. "Ever eaten pussy?" One eyebrow arched as though hoping this were the case.

"For Valar's sake!" Her hands rose from her sides. Eomer's trains of random thoughts were becoming, frankly, bizarre. "What do cats have to do with anything?!"

"Queen Beruthiel liked cats."

"Yes, but I'm sure she wasn't eating any of them!"

"Don't be so sure. She didn't seem to like the meat her husband gave her."

Groaning, Loti clapped a hand to the front portion of her cranium, trying to rub away the first throbbings of a headache. It was becoming increasingly hard to separate innuendo from fact in this conversation.

"Thanks for stopping by, but it's time you were going." Marching over, she kicked him, barefooted, behind the knees. "I have things to do."

His large melon of a head swiveled to and fro. "Like what? You weren't doing anything when I came in."

"Exactly. And I'd like to get back to it, so if you don't mind—"

"Come here."

The urge to groan again was strong, but rather than be contrary and demand why she should heel to him like an obedient dog only to have him complain that she asked too many questions, Loti padded reluctantly over, features narrowed and leery. Eomer plucked the end of one long, belled sleeve, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger, examining it with the same intensity as one who was a connoisseur of women's fashions.

"It's worn out," he said, showing her the edge of an unraveling hem.

"I didn't have time to mend it," she said through her teeth.

"I can see that. You were too busy darning Aric's socks." His sigh was like that of a man accepting the responsibility of a job no one else wanted to do. "Well, can't let you go around looking like the rag and bone woman. You'll need a new one. 'Til then…" He tugged on the sleeve. "You should take it off. Put something else on."

"Take it off?" she repeated, rapidly, "Then what am I going to wear? All my other clothes are being washed an— Oh, no!" The words were as much of a warning as the finger she shook in front of his nose. "Don't you dare say it-!"

"It's true." Taking hold of the admonishing digit, he twisted it, albeit gently, out of his face. "I may not be much to look at, maybe, but you'll think different after a quarter of an hour."

"That long, huh? More like five minutes."

"Well, it's been a few weeks," his eyes rose in an exaggerated half appreciative, half lewd manner from her bare feet to her slightly mussed hair, "so more like two."

"Are you undressing me with your eyes?" she squeezed out between her two front teeth.

"Would you prefer it I did it with my hands?"

Loti made a very creditable attempt at neutering him.

Nearly a minute later, as she had the fingers of one hand knotted in his hair and the heel of her other hand shoved up under his chin, the imperious sound of a throat being cleared froze them both in place, breathing hard from the struggle.

There stood the butler, framed in the doorway beyond Eomer's obnoxious, fat head, straight and lean as a beanpole in black livery, his long, sagging countenance a monument to inscrutability.

Fire burned up Loti's cheeks like flames through dry grass. Belatedly, she remembered servants didn't, as a rule, knock.

"Ah, Sador," Eomer said with an almost cheery lilt. He spoke quite normally considering she was attempting to snap his head off his shoulders. "What is it?"

"Sir," he said stiffly, "there are men here." Sador could hardly be called handsome. With gray casted skin and sunken, darkly circled eyes, he possessed a somewhat cadaverous aspect. Even his voice was on the ominous side; deep, resonant and commanding, like a god speaking from the heavens.

"Mine or theirs?" asked Eomer.

"Yours, Sir. It was her ladyship's wish they remained in the courtyard. I believe she was too afraid they would dirty the house." He paused, as though making up his mind about something. "Shall I…" another pause, shorter this time, "show them in, Sir?" His thin mouth pinched at the corners. _Beard-wearing, horse smelling savages_ that expression seemed to say. Clearly, he wanted nothing to do with his master's distasteful countrymen, but, as the dutiful servant, he must, at least, ask.

Eomer might be lord of the manor, but he knew who the real master here was. "Wynnie knows best, I expect. They'll keep until I'm done here. Thank you, Sador."

The butler's eyebrows, or what should have been the butler's eyebrows—they were very sparse and thin—rose the barest fraction of a fraction of an inch, an inconceivable degree of emotion for such a stony face man. A flush highlighted his gaunt cheeks so he no longer seemed so corpse-like. By the look of him, he was obviously unused to being thanked for simply doing his duty.

"You're welcome, Sir." The unflappable Sador nearly stammered. "Sir?" Sador lingered in the doorway. "Do you require anything else? Something from the medicament closet, perhaps?"

During this entire conversation, Eomer had been pinching Loti's nose between two knuckles in an 'I've got your nose' sort of way.

"Mmm…no need. We were just…talking." He promptly released his hold. Loti, just as promptly, drew back a fist and punched Eomer in the gut.

Like any good servant, Sador's eyes were devoid of both judgment or condemnation, but Loti suspected, underneath those hooded lids, he was second guessing his decision to work for this barbarous man and his overly opinionated sister, afraid of what other depravities—or scandal—the household might be subjected to.

"Very good, Sir," said Sador, who then turned on his heel and floated away, silent as a ghost.

"Ugh! You're such a boar, Eomer," Loti railed, brushing at her skirts with irritable sweeps of the hands once Sador had disappeared down the hall. "Truly porcine! You embarrassed him. I think he thought you were trying to molest me or something! Do you want all the servants thinking you're a heathen?"

"You worry too much. Sador came with the house. He was Faramir's brother's butler." Much to her disappointment, the punch to the belly had little effect on Eomer. He was absently rubbing a hand across his stomach, more for something to do than to alleviate any pain. "I knew Boromir. He could out drink and out fuck any man alive. Including myself."

"Modesty doesn't become you," she muttered.

For interrupting, Eomer gave her a mildly deprecating look. "Sador's seen what the privileged sons of powerful lords act like. Trust me, Hen. He's not shocked. You've got a fine right hook there."

"I've had a lot of practice." Hoisting herself up, Loti perched on the edge of the window seat next to him, the madness that had clenched her innards a few moments ago, dissipating like wisps of smoke in wind. Eomer was probably right about the butler. She saw no reason to admit that to him, however, preferring to say, "The privileged sons of lords, huh?"

A line of disagreement had appeared above Eomer's aristocratically prominent nose—a legacy passed on to him from his Gondorian grandmother—and she could see, just see, him trying to form the words, 'I'm not a privileged son'. After a couple of seconds consideration, he opted for the more conciliatory, "Mmhmm. You're too smart by half, Hen."

"Hmm… I thought you liked smart women."

"I do. Once you're done—er," He shrugged, an excessively modest movement. "You've got to talk to them sometime. Best they have something inside their heads besides marriage and babies and receipts for pies. I do like pie, though..." he added, a twinkle in his eye.

There was something different about Eomer. Had been since he'd been reunited with his sister. He'd lost that severe edge to his personality, the intense if-looks-could-kill-you'd-be-dead-by-now expression on his face. Next to her on the cushion, he sat with a loose jointed ease, behaved in a—mostly—good humored way, and smiled frequently, like a prisoner who'd escaped the confinement of his cell. It had taken awhile to pin down just what it was, but now she knew.

"You're happy. Aren't you?" she asked softly.

He answered by letting out a long breath. Then, he did something totally unexpected. Eomer put his arm around her shoulder, his big palm cupping the slender round like the wing of a bird, its heat slowly warming the linen of her sleeve. Loti permitted him to pull her to his side without resistance so he could play the big brother routine.

There they sat, content in each other's company, the warm breeze, slightly damp with northern air, playing in their hair, and the bleating of sheep smothering the _thwack-_ing sounds of herbaceous mass beheadings taking place in the garden. His coat smelled strongly of cedar wood storage, sharp and tangy, the perfect complement to the rich musk of his cologne.

They did, at times, have a very sibling-like relationship, easy and basic in its simplicity; Loti the carefree baby sister, Eomer the tedious elder brother. Other times their relationship was much more complicated, fierce and passionate and possessive, like lovers.

Curiosity got the better of her. "Have you really eaten cat?"

He glanced down at into her up turned face. "Once or twice," he said laconically.

"Once or twice," she repeated dubiously.

"Tasted like…" he added, without prompting, "Chicken."

"Ah. Of course." She hesitated, observing a tiny, imp-like curl to the corner of his expressive mouth. "Did you like it?"

"I did." He was regarding her from the corner of his eye again. "The ones who don't usually complain about the…hair."

Automatically, Loti's forehead wrinkled, but before she could form her lips around the next most logical question, he gave her a departing pat on the rump and bolted for the exit. "Got to go."

"Eomer," she called after him.

"Yes, Hen," he said, turning back at the jamb, his smile lighting the room like a morning sunrise.

"Next time, knock."

"Next time," he said in a raspy baritone. The breeze was warm across her neck, seducing, like the touch of his breath. "You'll invite me in."

Her gaze followed him out, eyes drawn to the tight, square shape of his buttocks under the skirts of his coat—well, if he could ogle her why couldn't she ogle him?—a slight smile on her lips and a real fondness for him curled around her heart.

Climbing back up among the big, fluffy pillows of the window seat, from the other side of the house, Loti heard the muffled voice of Eomer speaking to the butler prior to the opening and closing of the front door.

Not too long after his departure, yet another figure appeared at her door: Eowyn blowing in like a leaf with the exact same disregard for the courtesies as her brother, and, considering the time of year, she looked rather like a leaf, too. She hadn't yet changed out of the orange slashed brown velvet.

Her arms were heaped with a bundle of some sort which, when laid on the bed, resolved itself into a gown a several notches fancier than what Eowyn was already wearing. It also seemed to be made for a much larger woman.

"Settling in, are you?" she asked, then turned back towards the door, muttering. "Now where is that maid? Ah, Buttersworth, there you are! Just set the tray over there, please. Thank you, Buttersworth." She pointed to a nearby occasional table before addressing Loti again. "Eomer thought you might like some coffee and cakes."

Loti was opening her mouth to comment on Eomer's thoughtfulness when the maid servant, Buttersworth, sidled in through the doorway on her stubby, bowed legs, and dropped the silver tea service on the table with a crash, rattling cups and spoons in the process.

A hobbit, with snub features and an untamed mass of red curls pinned under her perfectly respectable, lace edged mob cap, Mistress Dolly Buttersworth was roughly the size and shape of a syrup jug. Unfortunately, as Loti was soon to learn, her personality wasn't as sweet.

"Pour your own coffee, king killing bitch," she said in a voice like sandpaper over stone.

"Now, Buttersworth," Eowyn chided, as though attempting to reason with a misbehaving child, "She's my guest. I should like it if you didn't speak to her that way."

"But she tried to kill the master, the poisoning whore!" the hobbit woman argued, grape green eyes tilted at Loti maliciously.

"Well, I don't think she actually tired to poison him," replied Eowyn, practically, "It was more like she tried to shoot him through the heart, wasn't it?" Eomer's sister smiled cheerily at Loti, completely unruffled by thoughts of vengeance seeking servants, assassins living in her house or a murdered brother.

"Um…" Loti thought it best to think of something else to discuss—and fast—before one of the fancy butter knives ended up wedged between her ribs. "Where was your brother going?"

It worked. "Oh, Black Chamber business. Ghastly boring if you ask me." Her hands, slim and white as limbs of unpeeled birch wood, waved away the thought of such boredom.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Loti tugged the thread of conversation. "Black Chamber?" she asked, not familiar with the term.

"It's a closed Council meeting. All state secrets and intelligence reports."

"And Eomer didn't want me to go with him?"

"Goodness, no!" Eowyn laughed, a boisterous, full sound, like a man's. "And why should he? They'll be discussing you anyway. I'm sure he didn't want you there to be talked about behind your back to your face. Anyway, the old fools don't have the same sensibilities my brother does when it comes to women." Continuing on, Eowyn sighed wearily. "And after that he and Faramir and Aragorn will go back to Faramir's office for brandy and cigars and to lament their golf games. Don't worry about Eomer. He's a big boy," she assured, "He can take care of himself. You and I have more important things to do!"

"We do?" This was a surprise.

"Of course! Didn't Eomer tell you? No…I can see he didn't. We're—Faramir and I, I mean—we're hosting a small reception tonight in the Citadel courtyard. Visiting dignitaries, nobles, that sort of thing. Just to introduce people before the wedding. You _must_ come as my guest, but since you don't have anything respectable to wear and there isn't time to have anything made, you'll have to wear one of my gowns. Altered, of course. Look at how tiny you are! Tomorrow Eomer wants me to take you shopping for new clothes but for now…"

Eowyn retrieved the dress from the bed and held it, rustling, against herself. It was the color of ripe tangerines with a ruched sweetheart neckline and a satin under skirt. The over skirt, long sleeves, and back, were made of a sheer, shimmering material called butterfly's wing that caught hues of blue or purple in the right light. There was a gathered, drape-y element centered directly underneath the beaded band of the empire waist, but the rest of the gown seemed to flair out loose and formless, although Eowyn assured Loti, however dubious, that her body would give it shape.

"I have too much body," Eowyn insisted, indicating her generous swell of hip and bosom, "And the color was never right on me. It's best suited for someone like you who's darker and you have just a hint of pink in your skin. I'm too fair and golden. It washes me out. Do you like it?"

Keeping a wary eye on the vindictive Buttersworth, Loti rose, crossed the room and picked up a corner of the lightweight, transparent overskirt, fingering it with a familiar mix of trepidation and longing. She'd never seen its like.

The renaissance that was transforming art, architecture and science, Buttersworth explained, also extended to court fashion. Gone were the days of unembellished wool gowns, shapeless cotton sack dressed, dull colors, uninticing high collars and long sleeves; functional yet uninspiring things worn prior to and during the War. Sensuality and skin was "in" and shouldn't the ugly cow have figured that out on her own! Gritting her teeth, Loti ignored this disparagement of her character, getting the distinct feeling she'd be doing a lot of this in the future.

"Um…" Loti said again, dropping the slippery fabric and listening to the way it whispered softly as it fell, like a light breeze through tall grass. "It's lovely…"

Eowyn pick up where Loti had trailed off, reassuring. "This style is all the rage now. The dress maker assured me that shoulders are quite—" Here she paused and gave Loti a look. This visual assessment did nothing to assuage Loti's apprehension, though. "Erotic this season. Perfect for attracting the notice of any number of eligible young men who might happen to be in attendance tonight, hmmm…?" She arched one perfectly plucked blonde brow, dangling the possibility out there like a carrot on a string.

Loti raised both of hers, remembering perfectly the scandalized look on Eomer's face when he'd seen the open back of her purple gown the night of al Din's party. At least that dress—however little it left to the imagination—hadn't shown any cleavage! Well, not front cleavage, anyway… It wasn't easy keeping the regret from her voice when she decided, "No…I'd better not. Your brother might—"

There was an angry swoosh of satin as Eowyn lowered the dress with a jerk. "My brother! Baaah!" She sounded as irritated as a sheep who'd just received a botched sheering. "To hell with him! Who does he think he is, anyway?"

Loti took a breath to say, "The King," when she was interrupted.

"Why did you pick that one, madam? She has no tits to hold it up with," denounced Dolly Buttersworth, placing work roughened hands on stout hips which only enhanced the jug-like impression. "No man will want her anyways. With no tits, she looks like a boy."

Loti reined in any desire she had to punch the woman in the throat.

"Well, we'll give her some bosom friends then, won't we?!" Eowyn answered.

The jug—er, hobbit woman—shook her head. "That won't work. She'll be mis-proportioned."

"We'll figure something out then!" The exasperation in Eowyn's voice disguised her impatience with the rotund maid's lack of imagination.

"What about shoes, madam?" Buttersworth said, miffed that her mistress disagreed with her observations. "The boy has nothing decent. Not that she deserves it."

Eowyn glanced down at the disagreeable servant. "I don't suppose…" Lifting her skirt, she stuck out one felt soled slipper. It resembled a barge, not a foot. Making a sound of self loathing, she waved away Buttersworth, ordering, "Go send one of the footman down to the cobbler's. Quickly now! Tell him this is an emergency!"

XXX

Eowyn's dignitarial reception was in full swing by the time Loti arrived in the Courtyard, skirts in hand and slightly breathless from the walk.

Her escort, one of the townhouse guards, a burly, hunchbacked, simple minded fellow the others called Elfric the Bull for reasons she didn't want to know, had gone with her up the high street, but hadn't taken her up by way of the tunnel through which she'd arrived in the morning. Instead, he'd guided her through a network of tunnels carved inside the mountain, pathways that connected important buildings on the sixth level, specifically, the barracks and the House of Healing, to the Citadel above. The click of her heels and the jangling of Elfric's weapons was loud, the sounds amplified within hollowed out rock, and, since the tunnels were essentially man-made caves, it was damp and quite cool inside, enough to make her shiver and cup her elbows in the palms of her hands. It made Loti think of herself as a predatorial intruder, wending her way through some gopher's hole. Retrospectively, those eerie tunnels, with their crudely hewn walls and sounds of dripping water, served an incredibly important purpose in the defense of the city and survival of its leaders, as the foolish fox has but one bolt hole.

She felt rather sympathetic towards gophers at the moment, since, if they didn't like being taken unawares, neither did spies. So it was with great relief that she approached the party from behind, as it were, rather than popping up unexpectedly in the middle of it, as she would have, had she come via the smelly main tunnel entrance. This bit of good fortune gave her an opportunity to not only regain her breath and take her bearings, but, also, it afforded her the chance to observe those in attendance without much notice.

Right from the beginning, it was quite obvious that Eowyn had her brother's talent for understatement. Rohan's favorite daughter had said with a flippant gesture that this was to be a small party. In Loti's mind, 'small' meant maybe fifty people or so, close friends and family. Maybe several of the high ranking dignitaries? To Eowyn, it clearly meant something entirely different. Three or four hundred people were here, milling about the courtyard, talking and laughing, their sonorous babel nearly drowning out the melodic strains of a string quartet relegated off to one side of the patio. Ladies dressed in silks and satins speckled the courtyard, draped in plumage of every imaginable color from aubergine—a much more sophisticated color than just plain old purple—to a horrid eye scorching metallic greenish color called zinnober. It looked as though a flock of exotic jungle birds had descended upon the Court of the Fountain. Parrots, perhaps, or, no, she thought, tilting her head to stare at the enormous feather stuck in one woman's coiffure, peacocks, and in the case of one young woman—was that? Yes it was! Several tiny stuffed canaries nestled in her upswept hair!

As was common with these sorts of gatherings, guests stood together in little clusters like grapes on a vine. Servants in black livery swooped bat-like through the crowd, stopping every now and again to offer refreshments from silver trays. One of these men appeared before her, bowing formally. Loti perused the offerings, most of which were as harsh looking as they were harsh smelling; things Eomer would drink. Wishing to avoid another incident of drunk and disorderly behavior, she chose a fluted glass full of something pink, bubbly, and unidentifiable but presumably innocent and the man swept off in a flourish, liquid in his remaining glasses barely rocking. She sniffed delicately before taking a small sip, tasting sweetness and fruit while the fizz, tickling, rose up the back of her nose. She converted a snort into a more delicate, lady-like sneeze.

The fountain for which the courtyard was named was only a few paces away, so she glided over to it, if only to see what the big deal was about. Eothain, with his gift for plain speech and witticism had the right of it; Gondorians had a marked sense of hyperbole. The 'fountain' was no more than a stone walled pool, like a well, about eight feet in diameter and filled with two feet or so of water. Sprouting next to the pool was the famed White Tree of Gondor. This, she was given to understand, was the second white tree, the first one having died and presumably hauled away to whatever glorious fate awaited fabled dead trees in Gondor, like gilding or being made into heirloom privy seats or garderobe doors or something similarly ridiculous like that. Lacking both foliage and blooms, the new tree probably looked just as ugly as the old had, gnarled and mangled, like parts of it had been gnawed on by an incompetent beaver. What had drawn her interest, though, was neither the tree nor the pool itself, but what was in the pool. Peering over the rim, Loti saw coins, the odd button, a few pebbles and, to her astonishment, lights. Under the clear water the lights shone blue and white hot, burning the way magnesium might when exposed to air, shivering the surface as rising heat from a fire shivers the air. They threw off an iridescent glow that shimmered off the winged mithril helmets of the two Citadel Guardsmen flanking the pool.

How could lights glow underwater?

Some trick of wizardry, no doubt. She seemed to recall Eomer mentioning something about Faramir and wizards. He dabbled in it? He was one? He had a friend that was one? She'd ask later to learn how it was done…

Spies by their very nature were curious and, having satisfied that need—for the moment, anyway—Loti picked up her skirts and took herself across the lawn to see the view of the city and beyond. Below, as she leaned cautiously over the waist-high wall, lay the circles of the city, black as the pits of Mordor and quiet, except for the men lighting street lanterns or the drunken shouts of revelers stumbling between taverns. More lanterns, tiny points of light seven hundred feet away, blazed along the city's main outer wall and, far away in the distance, along the Rammas Echor, the watch fires twinkled like stars in the flat black abyss of the Pelennor.

To the east, there was a thumbnail moon tonight, nothing more than a sickle shaped sliver of silver, suspended in the sky just above the ghostly gray peaks of the mountains. Around the wall of the courtyard, where flags had snapped in this morning's breeze, torches now burned, scenting the night air with the resinous smells of pine trees and autumn. The torch nearest Loti snapped and sputtered, showering sparks and embers that fell away, flickering out like dying lightning bugs, swallowed up by the night.

Sighing, she turned around, slumping in an unlady-like posture, the slab of stone smooth and still comfortingly warm at her back, the sun's heat trapped in its surface. It had been such a long day in a series of eventful months and Loti was looking forward to a well deserved break thanks to Eowyn's blessed interference. Enjoying the benefits of civilization wouldn't come amiss either. Sleeping in a large, fluffy bed, wearing clean clothes, lounging in a tub full of clean, hot water that she didn't have to lug out of a river and boil by herself. Maybe some shopping? Ah, the simple pleasures in life…

As she stood there, it occurred to her that for the first time in her life she was attending a party where there were no assets to intercept, no target to seduce, no mission to complete. Nothing to do but relax, have fun and enjoy herself. Things she never thought she would never have the opportunity to do. It was quite a surreal feeling, to say the least, like the waking state of confusion after a particularly vivid dream, unable to tell if the events therein were real or imagined.

The thought that she, or Eowyn, might be able find her a marriageable prospect among all these middle aged, soft-bodied, sleepy-eyed nobs was a little more difficult to believe, however. Surely not all of Minas Tirith's young men were either taken or— Well, she'd just leave that be…

The very last thing she wanted was to be trapped with, shackled to in the eternal bonds of matrimony, was an ignoble nobleman. While she did want maturity of the emotional kind in a man, she also wanted…what? Loyalty, bravery, courage. Inteligence. A handsome man would certainly be nice, but not essential. Faithfulness. Tenderness. Understanding? Yes, definitely that. A kind man who wouldn't beat her, who might treat her as an equal. Someone like…

Her cheeks—and other parts—felt warm all of a sudden.

A call of "Yoo who!" from a familiar female voice pulled Loti back into the moment. It was Eowyn, face lit with excitement, waving at her from across the crowd. This action elicited a cold sideways glare from the wrinkled old woman next to Eowyn. Her mouth pinched up in the corners like the old cow had been licking a particularly filthy block of salt, indicating she found the Steward's choice in women lacking and said woman's behavior unrefined. Eowyn, supremely secure in her role as hostess and future princess of Gondor either didn't notice or chose to ignore it, making anxious come hither motions to Loti with her hand.

Seen arm in arm, the Steward and his lady appeared both happy and relaxed despite the fact that their wedding was only days away. Faramir looked princely in burgundy velvet, his dark brown hair loose, brushing his shoulders while Eowyn, tall and long limbed, was elegant as a white rose in a long sleeved, white chiffon sheath gown, a drapey, chiffon cowl neck balancing out her nicely voluptuous bottom half.

Waving back in a much more subdued fashion, Loti picked up her skirts and began weaving her way through the crowd in their direction, the flush in her skin ebbing away.

About halfway there, as she glided light-footed past a group of young gentlemen, she felt an itchy twinge between her shoulder blades, as though that spot were a bull's-eye. It wasn't a weapon trained on her, that she knew. Nor was it a stray lock of hair. That was all pulled back and pinned on top of her head. No, it was definitely eyes.

She slowed her strides, turning her head, leisurely scan the crowd when an unfamiliar, but kind seeming face snagged her gaze in passing. Embarrassed to be caught staring so openly, her admirer, a hunky, thick set lad with the fullness of youth still clinging to his cleanly shaven cheeks, quickly looked away. But interest and attraction are difficult feelings to subvert, and a second later his eyes met hers again, this time more confident and lingering. Loti lowered her lashes demurely, flirtatiously, in response. An all too pleasant thrill swirled through her belly because, really, all women like the genuine admiration of a handsome man.

In the torchlight, he stood like a soldier; square shouldered and straight backed as a fireplace poker, nothing out of place, not even a lock of his shiny brown hair which was slicked back into a tight queue. Weapon at his hip, he had dressed in a deep purple doublet of quality and quite expensive, like an aristocrat might wear, although his skin was ruddy and tan, not the lifeless pallid color of a man of leisure which only enhanced her assumption that he was a soldier of some kind.

Before any more silent flirtations could pass between them, Loti, neglecting to watch where she was headed, crashed face first into a wall. Surprised, she stumbled, reeling backwards, and, as she was about to suffer the ignominy of landing on her backside in front of half the Gondorian nobility, the wall reached out, getting a good grip on her upper arms. Slightly stunned from the mishap, she still had enough common sense to know walls didn't normally have hands. With a shake of her head and some rapid blinking, her vision cleared enough to see that, instead of facing a wall, she was looking up at a man with a face like a disgruntled lion.

"Oh! Eomer!" She brightened, recovering from the surprise of seeing him. He looked just as stately as he had earlier in the day, if still a bit red-eyed, and the aromatic scent of cigars clung to his jacket. "How was your meeting?" There were no tufts of hair missing from his scalp so this afternoon's encounter with the Council couldn't have been that bad.

He didn't answer but continued to stand in her way, doing his well practiced imitation of a stone wall. The irony of this didn't escape her notice.

The focus of his stare shifted from her to the group of young men, unfriendly gaze fixed on the one who'd made eyes at her and slid back, cold as winter rain.

Feeling the smile on her face going stale, she had another go at inveigling him into conversation. "I was just on my way over to—Whaaa!" Seizing Loti by the arm, he began sheparding her back the way she'd just come like some sort of disobedient sheep. As a ceremonial part of his dress, he'd put on his sword. Four and a half feet of Gondorian steel, it hung from his hip in a fancy scabbard of black leather tipped in silver and smacked her rudely in the backside with every one of his long strides, occasionally making her trip.

"Eomer!" she hissed in a voice just loud enough for him to hear as they navigated clustered islands of guests like a war galley lashed together with a dinghy, "People are watching!"

This was true. Several interested heads turned as they passed by, feigning ennui even as they eagerly tapped companions on the shoulder so they, too, could stare. Loti cringed inwardly at the scene he was making. If there was one thing a spy didn't like it was unwanted attention.

"I don't really give a damn what they think," he told her, growling and searing one open mouthed gawker with a glare hot enough to start her hair on fire. Even here in Gondor, where the men were as tall and regal as their Nuemenorian ancestors, Eomer was hardly inconspicuous. Big, blonde and barbaric he stuck out like an orc in a beauty contest and had about as much refinement as one.

"Well, I do!" she complained, nearly rolling an ankle. The leather soles of her new heeled shoes were stiff and, since she was half running to keep up with him, consequently her feet hurt.

He ignored her protests, plucked the glass that she'd miraculously held onto from her hand, opened his mouth, tilted back his head and drained the contents in one long, liquid swallow as if it were some cheap swill and not the finest sparkling wine from Anorien.

She made a childish sound of protest as he dropped the empty flute neatly on the tray of a passing server.

Some very industrious bug had crawled up his backside between this afternoon and this evening. Hissing, she demanded, "Where are you taking me?"

"Home."

They had left the crowd behind by this time, so Loti dug in her heels like an uncooperative mule. "I'm not going home! Let go, you orc-headed fool! You're bruising me!" Twisting, she freed her arm, spun on her heel and stomped away, organza skirts flickering like dragonfly wings in the fountain's artificial brilliance.

Eomer lunged as she retreated, caught her arm again and whirled her around so they were once more nose to nose...sort of. "What are you doing here? And wearing half a dress!" he observed, standing back a little and hitting the right balance between prudery and the absolute horror of such a blatant display of nudity. If she'd had a wrap, he'd be trussing her up like a mummy, no doubt.

His tone was demanding and forceful, not to mention appalled, as though she was hideous and covered in warts or spots or something equally as disfiguring and she wasn't in the mood for it at the moment. Not at all.

"There's nothing wrong with my dress. We both know you've seen more of me than this!" In her opinion, she was quite modestly dressed and revealing only the merest hint of cleavage. "You'd have a fit if I wore anything more flattering than a burlap sack and an apron! Can't you say anything nice? Ever?!"

He considered that, lips tightening, a plausible signal of regret, and, then, as a man's more basic urges make it impossible not to look at a woman, his eyes lowered, leaving her face to glance involuntarily at hip, waist and—

His eyeballs got so big they nearly fell out of his head. "Bloody Bema," he said, half breathless with the sight, "How did they get so-?"

Loti hugged her arms across her chest, involuntarily accentuating their artificial bountifulness. "Never you mind how they got so big."

He made little juggling motions with cupped hands, head cocked to one side slightly in the way one examines a potentially bad piece of fruit, still fixated. "You look…out of proportion."

She bristled. "I thought you liked big…" Loti said and crudely mimed what she implied.

"I do. But not on you." Loti didn't take well to this either and Eomer reversed course, his lips doing that disappearing thing they were so good at. Abashed, he tried explaining. "It's like…false advertising."

The night was warm and now so was her face, red hot with humiliation.

"Gods, Eomer, you're so…" Fuming, she had to stop to think. "Such a…a… An insensitive ass! You're positively First Age, I swear! I've never known anyone so capable of inserting a foot that size into their mouth. Don't!" She stabbed a finger in his chest, forestalling interruption. "I don't want to hear it! Now –If you don't mind." Angrily fisting a handful of her delicate skirts, she again swept past him, nose elevated with unconcealed distain.

Eomer had other ideas, and snatched her elbow in passing.

When she looked up into his face there was fire in his eyes, literally. Big and black as onyx, they reflected perfectly the long tails of flame burning from the torches. His skin was washed in bloody light, burying one eye, half his nose, his cheekbones and the columns of his throat in shadow. Eomer's demons were rising.

"Insensitive, am I?" He might be riled but he was hurt by her words; she could tell by the way he said it. "You'll really think so now, then. Why are you here?" he repeated with considerable force.

"I was invited. By your sister, if you must know." She jerked her arm but he didn't let go.

"Well, you're going back."

"Why?!"

"Because I don't want you here."

He stood over her half stooped, looking down on her so she had to crank her neck back to see him properly. In fact, he was always looking down on her in one way or another, an action which she strongly resented. "Well, I don't care! I'm not a dog or a chicken you can just order around!"

Eomer shook her once, not hard, just enough to let her know that he could and would throw her over his shoulder, carry her back to the house and lock her in her room until he left Minas Tirith. "Listen to me, little girl," he began in a voice like the clashing of swords.

"Don't call me that!"

"Then stop acting like it," he threw back in a vicious whisper. "Do you not understand the danger you're in here?"

She surveyed their surroundings, giving Eomer her most incredulous, you've-truly-lost-your-mind-haven't-you face. "What? Here?"

"Not here!" he growled, fed up. "_Here."_

"Well, well, well," said a strange voice, "If it isn't my father's favorite son."

Whatever Eomer was going to say next, those remarks died on his tongue. Throughout their acrimonious discussion, neither one of them had been aware of this eavesdropper until he spoke.

Eomer's jaw snapped shut like a steel trap and he rose automatically to his full height like an animal who wishes to appear more intimidating. Even his beard seemed to be standing on end, Loti thought. Through his nose, Eomer inhaled one long, full breath, summoning a patience that was rapidly deserting him, but not once did he take his eyes from her face.

His lips parted to speak. His teeth, however, did not. "Amrothos. Are you blind or just stupid? Can't you see I'm busy?"

Amrothos? The name made her blink in recollection. So this voice in the night was the infamous youngest son of the Prince of Dol Amroth, the one Eomer liked to call the 'Man-whore of Gondor'—although his use of this pejorative seemed hypocritical, given what she'd witnessed of Eomer's rather promiscuous behavior.

According to the perpetually grinding Rohirric rumor mill, although he never publicly voiced his dislike of the young prince, it was a well known that Eomer had a low opinion of the man. As to the origins of his animus, she was still uncertain, but, hot-blooded and short tempered as Eomer was, it could be anything from insulting his dead mother to laughing at his horse. Strangely, Eomer wasn't one to hold a grudge. Normally, given time to reflect, he was a very forgiving man, accepting of other's differences.

This was not a normal case. That was evident from the start.

"Are you busy? Looks like public ravishment to me. I always knew you were a barbarian, Eomer, but, really…" There was a definite smile in Amrothos's voice, amiably teasing, as though aware of Eomer's dislike and not caring. "Hold on! This is foreplay for you, isn't it?" The smile in his voice grew bigger, almost becoming a laugh. "And here I thought you didn't get off on that. Me, I prefer role play. Does she do that, too? You know, for some reason I've always wanted to play the frog that gets kissed by the beautiful woman and turns into a prince. Pretty ironic, wouldn't you say?"

Loti risked a quick peek past Eomer as Amrothos prattled on, but all she could see in the deep gloom of the far courtyard was the amorphous shape of a man, lean bodied and nicely tall, ringed in the harsh light of the fountain and flanked by what looked like a couple of fence posts. Nothing to indicate he was as sinister as Eomer's behavior warranted. No horns or tail or cloven feet of any sort.

Slowly, Eomer, making a concentrated effort to not behave like a bear about to rip somebody's face off, turned toward Amrothos. It was the tightly controlled, yet resigned movement of a man about to address a firing squad, a hood of inscrutability masking his features.

"Well, you are a toad, so it wouldn't be that much of a stretch, would it? Why are you here and not off somewhere shacking up with a diseased whore or dishonoring some farmer's poor daughter?" His words were scornful even if his face was not.

There was a gleam of white in the dark, teeth bared in smile. Tisking as though disappointed, Amrothos stepped forward, materializing out of the night like a ghost resuming corporeal form. "Oh, come now, Eomer. Farmer's daughters? We both know that's more your style than mine."

Illuminated by the harsh light of the fountain, the man standing before Loti was dressed like a storybook pirate, one, she supposed, that had been sleeping in his clothes for the last few days. The chest frills of his white lawn shirt, once neatly starched, drooped lifelessly, framed between the wide, black satin lapels of his coat and more frills hung limply at his wrists, peeking out from under six inch black satin turned back cuffs. Luckily, the tightly tailored body of the coat was made from crushed black velvet and since this material usually looked as if it been trampled by rhinoceroses, it did a moderately sufficient job of hiding the fact that it had been lying on a floor in a crumpled heap for the last few days. At least the snug fitting, matching britches were clean and his knee high black boots weren't caked with mud or road dust. His short hair, black and glossy as a facet of coal, was as rumpled as his clothes, as if hastily styled with his fingers. This combined with his disordered state of dress only enhanced the impression that he had recently rolled out of someone's bed. Or, perhaps, two someone's…

On either side of Amrothos, arms linked through his, were two very tall women—not fence posts. Brown haired, big eyed beauties with the rough bodily proportions of broomsticks and rather scantily clad, they were twins. Identical twins, in fact, perfectly matched as a pair of porcelain dolls.

In spite of blatant flaws in his character, Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth was undeniably stunning to look at, beautiful, even, if such a feminine term could be used on such a darkly sensuous man. Under the snug fitting coat, his torso was the inverted triangular shape of a swimmer, narrow hipped and broad backed, and, while the weird radiance of the fountain leeched color from everything in its vicinity, it only seemed to enhance Amrothos's suntanned skin, flawless as a sheet of well oiled bronze, a hue strictly achieved by a beach dweller. He couldn't have been older than twenty five and cleanly shaven, as most young men were these days, but, considering the dismal state of his dress, he showed no hint of evening shadow along his cheeks. The lack of facial hair proved only to heighten the evidence his mixed Dol Amrothian ancestry. The definition of cheekbones, the sleek skin and rock hardness of his jaw line, the trim, manly nose, noble forehead and deep set eye sockets were the legacy left to him by traveling Elves, shipwrecked Umbari pirates, black skinned Haradrim slaves, Nuemenorian royalty and every now and again, a nomadic, adventuring Northman, all of whom contributed something to this very distinctive 'look'. Not really surprising when one thought about it, since the promontory of Dol Amroth and the city therein were not only historic, but a major center of trade attracting all manner of individuals.

"Close your mouth, woman," Eomer grumbled, sounding like thunder. She clamped her lips together, feeling the burn of embarrassment in her cheeks. He must have sensed rather than witnessed her goggling at Amrothos because his gaze, black as orc blood, never left the other man's face. "Haven't you ever seen a pox riddled bag of shit before?"

Rich, hearty, and mature, the Prince's laughter was the sound of a man twice his age, and for Loti, it stirred a flash of memory, sending icy tingles slithering down her spine, raising all the hairs on her scalp like the fibers in a hairbrush. Someone else she had known, a long, long time ago had laughed in precisely that same way. But who? And it wasn't just his laughter. There was something about his eyes… Big and slightly slanted, they may have been the color of liquid mercury, bright sliver and possessed of an amazingly penetrative quality, but they were as familiar to her as her own.

She shivered, the vibration of it transferred to Eomer who still had a hold on her arm. He gave her a brief tight-eyed look filled with worry and silent questions. _What is it? Do you know him? Has he ever hurt you? Should I rip off his arms as though I were tearing the wings off a fly? _She returned the look just as silently and with a nearly imperceptible shake of the head. _It's nothing. Goose walking on my grave._

Amrothos shook his head. His speech was lightly accented, reflecting the dulcet tones of the Gondorian Riviera. "Ah, Eomer, you old dog! I'm amazed the good looking chits still want anything to do with you." Smug and full of arrogant self assurance, he lifted a hand and pointed, unencumbered by his escort's emaciated arm dangling limply from his own like skeletal remains. "Who's your friend?'

"Where's your father?" Eomer shot back like the cracking of a whip.

All traces of hilarity slipped from his features. Glancing to each girl in turn, Amrothos carefully disentangling himself like a man stuck in a spiderweb, and gestured with his chin. "Go on ladies, enjoy the party," he shooed, patting one affectionately on her boney hand. "Eomer and I have things to discuss. I'll join you in a bit. When I'm done here."

They pouted briefly at the dismissal, balking, but he kissed each on the cheek, and obediently, the girls slunk off in swishes of silk; shoulders squared, chest out, hips swaying exaggeratedly to compensate for their lack of shape.

Amrothos, dreamy bliss reflected in the ovals of his eyes, sauntered over to stand next to Eomer and the three of them watched the girls disappear.

"Elvish twins," he sighed, still staring, "Working as nude models for some painter. Gods, Eomer, you should see what they're like in bed." About six feet two inches tall, the top of Amrothos's head came up a few inches above Eomer's shoulder. Grinning like a fool, he glanced up at Eomer, giving him a friendly backhanded slap to the chest like they were best buddies all of a sudden. "If you still haven't fucked an elf maiden, I'll let you borrow them sometime. Not that they're very maidenly…"

This generous offer was met by Eomer with a flinch and a grimace of disgust. "Why the hell would I want your leftovers?"

Amrothos let out a pitying noise, sagging a bit at the knees. "But Eomer," he groaned, "They're elvish twins! You should've seen what they did last night. Arneth—she's the one on the left. At least I think she's the one on the left… Who cares what their names are when they look like that! Anyway, she took her finger and put it up-"

Eomer interrupted, offended and mildly scandalized. "I don't need your help getting laid. Besides, they've got nothing I want to see. Fence rails have got more curves."

Lowering his brandished finger, a frown pushed Amrothos's black brows together in puzzlement. "If you like the fat ones so much, why are you with—"

The pale blue rings around Eomer's pupils nearly disappeared. As Loti eyed him suspiciously, he darted a glance in her direction, his formerly closed expression suddenly widening with something resembling panic, quickly suppressed. His gazed snapped back to Amrothos, eyes gleaming with warning.

"Your father," Eomer demanded with sudden ferocity. "Where is he?"

Amrothos became serious again, but he couldn't quite loose that air of—what? Impishness? Cavalier disrespect? "You know father. Duty first." He scanned the milling crowd with disinterest, as though searching for a way to escape this conversation. "That the Swan Knights' motto, isn't it? Duty, Loyalty, Courage. How cliché. Nothing else matters to Father even if his family has to suffer for it, selfish bastard. He's probably still on a ship somewhere, out with the navy." He shrugged. "Who knows where he is? I don't."

"You shouldn't talk about your father that way," reproached Eomer. "He's a good man."

Amrothos snorted, a mean, half deprecating sound that nicely complimented the unpleasant smirk stuck on his lips. "Yes, well… Always faithful, right, brother? Favorite son and all that."

"If I had a brother, Amrothos," Eomer replied, flatly, "it certainly wouldn't be you."

Conversation lapsed into silence, the twitchy, tension laced kind that even the convivial murmurings of the guests behind them couldn't fill.

Plainly, this was a point of serious contention between the two. Eomer, having lost his own father as a young boy, would obviously harbor strong feelings of loyalty toward Amrothos's father, Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, a man who, in Eomer's greatest hour of need, had offered him both paternal guidance and strength, treating him as another son.

But one of those queer feelings deep down told Loti this differing of opinions regarding Imrahil wasn't the only reason for Eomer's antagonism.

Not wishing to argue, the prince ran a hand through his thick, black hair, causing a hank of it to fall roguishly over one eye and changed the subject. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" he asked, again pointing at Loti

"No," Eomer said, the 'why should I?' left unspoken but implied.

"I swear, Eomer, you have the manners of an ill bred dwarf," teased the Prince. Then a thought seemed to occur to him. "Oh…. Well…So for all your talk, Eomer, you're no better than I am. Why didn't you just tell me she's a wh—" The front of his shirt became even more wrinkled as Eomer twisted the frills in his fist.

"Don't say it, shit for brains." Eomer gave him a shake, threatening, the bones of his knuckles showing white beneath the skin. "If you don't have a care for my sister and your cousin, at least have a care for those things you call balls."

Amrothos, released with a shove, took a step back, adjusting his clothes. Cocky as a banty rooster, he was smiling slyly again, unafraid of either Eomer or his threats. Showing he did have a care, for his testicles if nothing else, he bowed to her with all the punctiliousness of his title. "I was thoughtless in my words and beg your forgiveness, dear lady," he said.

Staring her dead in the eye, she felt him assessing her the same way she had him, with curiosity and great attentiveness. His interest didn't cause her to feel ill at ease, even if she was mildly insulted by his insinuations regarding her occupation—there was nothing lewd or implied in his look—but she made a conscious effort to keep her features as impassive as possible before bobbing her head, accepting his apology. Amrothos came off as harmless enough, just the mischievous sort, but she could sense a shrewdness behind that impetuous exterior. She'd be sure to keep both eyes on him should they ever meet alone.

Whirling on his heel, he was gone in a swirl of velvet coat tails as unexpectedly as he'd appeared, slipping into the crowd as stealthily as a snake.

"You really don't like him, do you?" she said, more as an observation than a question.

"And you did?"

"Well…" She considered her answer. "I thought he was quite—"

Eomer had been blistering Loti with that domineering sideways glare of his. He abandoned that now, rounding on her, fierce as a badger stuck in a trap. "Listen to me. He's a spoiled, entitled little brat. Obnoxious. Two-faced. Reckless."

"You two should have a lot in common, then," murmured Loti.

Insulted, his cheeks flexed with the grinding of his teeth. He straightened his spine, sucking in one long, noisy breath through his nose, chest expanding with indignation like the filling of a water skin.

Oops. Had she said that out loud? "I'm sorry," she blurted, nervously waving her hands, hot-cheeked under the scrutiny of those gimlet blue eyes. "That wasn't fair. I shouldn't have said it."

Like nothing had happened, Eomer picked up right where he'd left off. "I don't trust him. And neither should you! Look at you!" he continued, steaming vigorously, like vegetables cooked under pressure, "You've been here less than a day and already you've been mistaken for a whore and made a target of yourself." Eomer stopped talking, tilted his head and listened as the Court Marshal proclaimed the names and titles of yet more fashionably late-arriving guests, that man's rich, stentorian voice carrying above the bee-like hum of the crowd. "At least you were smart enough not to get yourself announced! There's a price on your head, woman. Have you managed to forget that?"

Her lips formed a silent O at the same time as her stomach clenched like a fist. Amid all the excitement of the afternoon—the dress fitting, the selection of shoes, and, yes, the sequential consumption of three cinnamon sugar buns—she had managed to forget.

"Well, I didn't. Gossip travels fast and well you know it. By now, half the pricks here know who you are. And we still have no idea who the traitor is!" His hand rose, tightening around her arm, emphasizing his meaning. He exhaled through his nose, gustily, sounding like his horse when that animal was tired, and began again, modulating his tone, trying to be reasonable. "Look, hen, I know I can't keep you hidden away forever. We were going to be found out eventually anyway. But, even still, there's nothing except danger for you here! That's why I wanted you in the barracks, where Eothain and the others could protect you. No bounty hunter could get in there. And neither would he try. It would be suicide."

Loti gaped up at him, anger building like magma under the dome of a volcano, provoked more by his lack of faith than by Amrothos's implication that she was loose in her ways. "So _they_ could protect _me_? Why, you highhanded-! What about you—walking the streets unguarded!" Outrage combined with indignation made her nearly incoherent. "My gods, Eomer, your positively insufferable sometimes! Well! I'm sorry I'm such a burden! Why am I even here with you? You could have-"

"Have you gone fruit bat crazy, woman!" He was right down in her face, the hand gripping her arm squeezing, really putting the hurt on her, even though she was sure it was unintentional. Fairly sure, anyway. "I couldn't leave you there in Harad. You're my responsibility. I'm trying to keep you alive! And the only reason I let Eowyn talk me into letting you stay with us is because I can keep a closer eye on you in my own house and because the thought of you—" He broke off abruptly and looked away, grimacing like a dog defending its territory, all teeth and intensity.

"Because you thought what?" she repeated, nastily.

When his gaze snapped back to hers, there was something distinctly rabid in his eyes. "You want your blood on my hands, too?" he snarled, breathing heavily. His breath smelled strongly of whiskey, hot, like a dragon's breath. "Would you have me watch more of my women die? Do you want to see me to suffer? Is that it? Is that to be my punishment? You do whatever you want anyway, no matter what I think, don't you!

Immediately and roughly, Eomer let her go, practically shoving her away from him. He stood up straight again, seeming to grow even taller against the diaphanous glow of the party, a giant rising from slumber, his spine and silence echoing the rigidity of the Tower of Ecthelion at her back, using male pride as a shield against this unexpected outpouring of emotion. There were too many feelings raging across his face to identify just one, but it was as if he were reliving something truly terrible. Or imagining it.

It was in Eomer's nature to be over protective, over reactive and over bearing, traits which she often found insulting. But what she had previously seen as controlling, she now knew for fear. Fear, not for himself, as he was marked for death as well, but for those he cared about. As usual, without uttering a single word, Eomer had said a mouthful.

There was something significant about their separation. He from her. Eomer from the rest of the world. Eomer from himself, his feelings, his memories, his past. It was something she didn't know if he could ever over come, this propensity of his to push people away, to keep everyone, including those closest to him, at a distance. It was sad, really, that such a passionate and brave man should be so troubled and alone and afraid. He was a great warrior, for sure, however, not all foes were tangible enough to be slain with weapons. Eomer's worst enemy was, undoubtedly, himself, and, as Loti watched him struggling, fighting down his demons, she became even more convinced that his greatest battles were yet to be fought.

_He thinks only of you_ a_nd _you_ accuse _him_ of being insensitive_, she thought, berating her own stubbornness, her own pride and inflexibility. Didn't she and Eomer make a pair? Both as stubborn as square boulders. Like a couple of thick skulled rams, never knowing when to stop butting heads.

A part of her wanted to run and throw herself on his mercy, sobbing and generally acting like at a foolish girl at the suggestion she wished to punish him. Another part, a part that had knotted in her chest, wanted to slip her hand into his much bigger, rougher one and offer him the solace he so plainly needed. And yet another part, the part that won, was simply ashamed.

"I'm…" Her mouth worked soundlessly, searching for words. When she did find them, they came out disconnected and insufficient. "Sorry. I didn't think— I mean, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't," he conceded, brusquely cutting her off, excuses or apologies not something he wished to hear just now. He breathed heavily out of his nose, an exhalation that was one part frustration, two parts an exercise of patience and in speaking again, there was a tone of understanding in his voice. "It's not your fault. It's Eowyn's. She's so bloody persistent; she could get a dwarf to give up his gold if she put her mind to it." Having encountered Eowyn in just this particular state of mind, Loti had to agree. "She does whatever she wants unless you tell her otherwise. And even then she doesn't listen!" He pushed a hand through his hair, hooking the strands back behind both ears in an irritated manner. "Ghaw! She makes me so—"

"Fruit bat crazy?" She snorted, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth in a completely useless attempt to stop giggling.

The edge of his wide mouth twitched, a smile hidden in the corner, all his anger spent. "Mmhmm. Well…It sounded right at the time."

Seeing his attitude softening, she decided there was no better time to do some shameless wheedling. "It's alright, then? If I stay?" Like all genuinely kind men, Eomer was a big softy under all his emotional armor. But, like tough dough, a male ego occasionally needed a bit more kneading. "I'm already here and I have such a big strong man to protect me." With big, trusting eyes she gazed up at him, innocent as a kitten.

Eomer scrubbed both hands over his face with a scratchy sound, instantly appearing both very tired and very stressed, like a rope with too much weight on it. Right then, Loti was certain that, in his entire life, Eomer had never known relaxation or peace.

He made some sort of noise, presumably in the affirmative, shooting her a crooked eye. No dummy, he knew he was being coerced. "Mmhmm, alright. Stay. Maybe we'll learn something new. Or maybe the traitorous son of a bitch will show himself and I'll be able to put a boot up his ass. But promise me one thing, will ya, woman?"

"Mmm…What?" she asked, cautiously.

"At least _try_ to behave yourself," he suggested as if knowing full well this was never going to happen.

She felt the need to defend herself. "If you're referring to that incident at al Din's party, I assure you—"

"Bema, help me. I think I already regret this," he muttered, directing his words at the sky. "Now, come on." He offered Loti his arm. "My sister will want to see you. And I'll get blamed if she doesn't."

They had taken maybe ten steps before Eomer lightly cleared his throat, a preliminary to speech. This was an ancient male ritual preformed before reporting bad news or something equally as grave, but never in a million ages would Loti have guessed how important Eomer's next words were going to be or how betrayed she would feel afterwards.

"Loti…"

Uh-oh. This was getting worse by the word. The only time Eomer ever used her given name was either _as_ a warning or in combination_ with_ a warning. Right now, though, he sounded simply uncertain, not at all like the confident everyday Eomer. From the corner of her eye she gave him a queer sideways look just to be sure he hadn't been replaced with a convincing doppelganger. "Yes…" she answered, suffusing that one word with as much suspicion as possible.

Adroitly steering her through a narrow gap in the humanity, their pace slow and measured so she needn't run to keep up with him, Eomer's sandy brows drew down in a V; a frown, but a pensive one as if he were carefully selecting his next words. With a sigh and the knowledge that this could take a while, Loti began feeling squirmy, like a colony of worms was wriggling up and down the hollow of her backbone. Would he not just hurry up and say whatever it was he was going to say?! The very last thing she wanted was to spend the rest of the night worrying over what Eomer couldn't or wouldn't articulate! To add to her frustration, the feathery piece of fluff with which the lady's maid had dressed her hair kept tickling her ear, it's tiny down tentacles hovering like a cloud of gnats just outside of her peripheral vision. She swatted at it, the trickling of adrenaline into her body making her tense and irritable. Like disturbed gnats, the feathers scattered only to gradually settle around her ear once more, reforming their cloud.

Skirting a brazier, its heap of aromatic pine logs happily burning into ash, throwing off both light and unneeded heat, Eomer ended his self imposed silence. "There's someone I want you to meet." He spoke gently.

Any apprehensions Loti had drained away, seeping out through her feet like water through a sieve, a breathless relief replacing her worry. Growing excitement raced through her bloodstream in little zaps and tingles, the delight of this announcement like static on her skin.

Foolishly pleased, she smiled up at him, but he was oblivious, wearing his normal mask of frowning taciturnity. "Oh…Really?" she wondered demurely. He passed air across his vocal chords in a grim sounding grunt.

Goodness, she was giddy as a little girl with a new doll! Actually, she was so wild with it and a heart palpitating nervousness that she felt her head might float off her shoulders. After all that stupid, pointless arguing, Eomer was going to introduce her to someone—a man—or—Valar!—maybe multiple men! _Well of course he was!_ she thought, trying to reassert some reason into the delightful whirlings of her mind. She was here. Rich and titled gentlemen were here. And Eomer was here…to stand guard like a very loyal but vicious dog and chase off anyone who spoke or acted in any way he considered less than honorable. Hmm… Some of that excitement leaked out. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as much fun as she'd first hoped…

Slightly deflated, but not the least bit defeated, Loti remembered the well dressed, handsome, soldier-ish young man she's been exchanging flirtations with a little while ago and her spirits began to instantly re-inflate. He seemed exactly the sort Eomer would approve of—strong, wealthy, disciplined, kind—and her brain clapped its imaginary hands with enthusiasm.

Smoothing a hand down her side, the shimmery fabric smooth and strange under her palm, she primped a bit and batted at the uncooperative hair pin. "How do I look?"

Lowering his lashes, he regarded her with only the mildest interest. "You look…fine."

"How do you want me to act?"

"Just be yourself," he replied, stiffness noticeable in his voice. "You're…you."

Eomer's command of the Rohirric language was staggering.

Loti didn't want to appear gauche and over eager in the presence of so many sophisticated lords and ladies, but the suspense and her overactive curiosity were eating away at her calm exterior. She was all but bouncing on the tips of her toes! And, besides, she decided, giving into the urge and putting a little hop in her step, this was Eomer. She needn't try to impress him!

"So where is he?" Leaning on his arm and standing on tiptoes, Loti craned her neck, subtly scanning the crowd.

"What!"

"Who is he? I don't mind older men, you know that, but none over the age of fifty." She waggled a finger in his direction, still searching. "After that, they get all jowl-y. I don't like jowls. Or boils. Guh!" She cringed.

Coming to an instant halt in the same way a fist does when meeting the bones of a face, he swung her around, catching Loti off guard. His expression was so upset with confusion and insult it was almost comical. Almost.

"You think I'm courting a man?"

What!

"You're courting a man?" she exclaimed.

Oops. She'd said that a bit too loudly. Heads spun around, eyeballs jiggled, jaws dropped open and ears flapped as if everyone in their vicinity had contracted the same highly contagious disease.

Coldly surveying the audience they'd accidentally collected, Eomer quickly hustled her off to the side were they could speak more privately, her skirts whisking against his pant leg.

"Keep your voice down," he hissed when they were alone and unobserved, "I am _not_ courting a man!"

"Well, good!"

"Then why would you even ask that? No—don't answer that! And why do you think you're going to meet a man?"

"You said there was someone you wanted me to meet," she insisted, hearing the exasperation she felt permeate into her words. "Who else would you introduce me to besides a man!"

From his expression, Eomer finally understood. He raised his head, as if saying, 'Ah, I see,' and gazed down at her with a look close to pity.

"Loti…" he repeated, seriously this time, shaking his blonde head.

"What?"

"I'm not going to introduce you to a man," he confessed.

"Oh." Hopes dashed, her inner self drooped slightly, like a flower battered in a rain storm. "Then…" Confusion creased her forehead, "who _are_ you taking me to see?"

He didn't want to answer. She could see it in the way he held himself, like he was carved in stone, but damn if she was going to beg him! She had her pride! …And the twinges of a bad feeling…

When the words eventually fell from his mouth, they left Loti completely stunned. "I'm going to introduce you to a woman. The woman that I've been courting."


End file.
